


From Morning Sun Til Dine

by Chash



Series: Holiday Fills 2017 [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-26 11:12:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13234473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: Continuing collection of holiday fic fills! Still mostly Bellarke.





	1. Hang Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Just putting the handful 2018 fills I've got in a new collection so the AO3 stats remain consistent across years. Closing in on done!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [mostlypoptarts](http://mostlypoptarts.tumblr.com)! Prompt: Bellarke Johnny Tsunami AU

Not that anyone asked him before the decision was made, but Bellamy has a long list of reasons why moving to Vermont is a terrible idea.

First off, they’re moving for his mother’s internet boyfriend. And while he doesn’t have any inherent problems with internet relationships, he’s not convinced his mother has really thought this through. Because, secondly, Vermont and Hawaii are, from everything he can tell, completely different worlds. It’s  _cold_  in Vermont, for one thing. There’s no coastline, and there are bears.

And, of course, their whole lives are in Hawaii. All of their friends, what’s left of his dad’s family. They haven’t even  _been_  to Vermont. It would be one thing if they were moving back to California, where his mother is from, but this is  _Vermont_. A tiny, underpopulated state on the Canadian border.

“We haven’t even been there before,” he tells his mother.

“I have.”

“I meant me and O. We’ve never been there.”

“I tried to get you to come last time, but you wanted to stay here with your grandfather.”

“Is that still an option?” he grumbles. “Lolo would let me live with him.”

“It was never an option. Staying for a few weeks when you have school to go to is very different from living with him permanently. I know you’re not excited about this,” she goes on, before he can say anything else. “It’s a big change, and it’s going to be an adjustment for all of us. But I think it’s going to be a good one.”

Octavia’s no more impressed, but at ten, she isn’t great at presenting arguments or making her case. “It’s going to be  _cold_  and I don’t want to go,” is the extent of her objections, and while Bellamy doesn’t disagree, he doesn’t think it’s going to convince their mother.

Nothing is going to convince their mother, honestly. That’s part of the problem; they’re kids, and the decision has been made, and they have to live with it. That’s how adults  _always_  make decisions.

His grandfather, of course, is pragmatic. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”

“It can not be as bad as I think and still be bad. Are you sure I can’t live with you?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t want you around all the time, cramping my style.”

He has to smile. He and his grandfather have always been close, and they understand each other pretty well. His mom probably saw this coming and already intervened. And it  _is_  a big deal, taking care of a kid. Even if he’s sixteen and mostly self-sufficient, it’s probably a pain.

“I always regretted not going more places,” Lolo continues. “I haven’t traveled as much as I’d like. When you live on an island, it can be hard to get in other places. So you can take some time, see what the mainland has to offer. We’ll still be here when you’re ready to come back.”

“I’m ready now,” he says, but he knows it won’t do any good. The decision is made, and he’ll have to live with it. Maybe he can go to New York City sometime, that might be cool.

Maybe there’s something good in Vermont. Stranger things have happened.

Unfortunately, whatever good there is in Vermont is slow to present itself. Mom decided the best idea was to go at the beginning of summer, just a few weeks after Bellamy and Octavia finished with school. The idea was that it would be warmer and they’d have time to settle in, but as plans go, Bellamy thinks it left something to be desired. It’s warmer, sure, but without school, he doesn’t really know how to meet people. He’s never been great at making friends, and while Octavia manages to find some kids playing in their yards and get immediately involved in some sort of intense, preteen turf war, he has more trouble.

At least the town has a library, but it’s not the same. At home, he’d be doing plenty of reading, but he’d also be at the beach every morning, catching waves and honing his skills.  _Professional surfer_  might not be a realistic career goal, but it’s not like he wanted to do it forever. He just wanted to keep up the family legacy, and then move on to something else.

There aren’t a lot of opportunities to surf in Arcadia, Vermont, though, so reading it is.

It’s mid-July when someone sits down across from him and says, “You’re new.”

He looks up, sees a guy about his age with dark skin and hair and a surprisingly decent beard. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and has some sort of weird board next to him, which is enough to pique Bellamy’s interest. Boards are kind of his thing.

“Yeah, and?” he prompts.

“You’re the one from Hawaii, right? You into surfing?”

He’s reading one book about surfing and has another next to him, so it’s not exactly a stretch. Still, he frowns. “How did you know I’m from Hawaii?”

“Dude, you’re in small-town Vermont. I hate to break it to you, but anyone moving in is big news. I’ve heard every bad take on the whole thing you can imagine.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Someone told me Mr. Pike bought a mail-order bride on the internet, that was my favorite.”

Bellamy snorts. “Jesus. Seriously?”

The guy shrugs one shoulder. “He’s a teacher, that means more rumors. I bet he’s getting you into the academy.”

“The academy?”

“Alpha Academy, the private school.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. He said something about that.”

The guy nods. “So, this might make it awkward for you at school, but I’ve always kind of wondered how similar surfing and snowboarding are. I’m gonna do some mountain boarding later. You want to check it out?”

There’s a lot of interesting stuff in the statement, but Bellamy focuses in on what strikes him as the weirdest tidbit. “Why would that be awkward at school?”

“Come check out mountain boarding and I’ll tell you,” he says, and it’s not like Bellamy has anything else to do.

As it turns out, the guy’s name is Nathan Miller. Like Bellamy, he’s sixteen and a rising junior, although he’s at the public school. His father is the chief of police, which means he doesn’t get away with anything, but he seems pretty cool, from what Bellamy can see.

He also explains that the teenagers also have their own intense turf war, between the academy kids and the public school kids, and Miller is crossing enemy lines to try to get Bellamy into snowboarding instead of skiing.

“Seriously?” he asks.

“What?”

“You guys have a rivalry about what winter sports you like better?”

Miller shrugs. “Small-town Vermont, like I said. We have to make our own fun. You still want to check out the boards?”

“I’m pretty sure the academy kids will have a better reason to hate me than snowboarding,” he says. “Show me how it works out.”

As it turns out, he’s right about that, not that it’s particularly good news. Even if he hadn’t spent his summer getting a feel for mountain boarding in preparation for trying it with real snow come winter, he wouldn’t fit in at Alpha.

For one thing, he’s never been a private-school kid. The only reason he is now is that Charles works there, and Charles got him in. Which doesn’t help either. Not only is he a new kid, but their only point of reference for him is that he’s dubiously related to one of the teachers. No one needs to know about the snowboarding thing; they’re dicks all on their own.

Well, except for Clarke.

To be clear, Clarke is absolutely a dick. There’s no doubt of that. But she’s a dick whose mother is the principal of the school, and whose step father is an English teacher on top of that, so she’s about the last person who’s going to be a jerk about Charles. Instead, she’s cute and smart and kind of sarcastic and angry all the time, which is the kind of dick he  _likes_. She’s totally his type.

But when winter rolls around, she’s also definitely a skier.

“Is that actually a thing?” he asks, dubious.

“Skiing? Yes, Bellamy, skiing is real. I thought you had that in Hawaii. Just, like, on the water. I’ve seen pictures.”

He snorts and elbows her. “Shut up. Miller told me there was some sort of intense rivalry about skiers versus snowboarders and I was going to get stuck in the middle.”

She frowns. “Miller? Which Miller?”

“Nathan. The police chief’s son. He’s been teaching me to snowboard.”

Considering Clarke is his  _normal_  friend, it’s mildly alarming the way her eyes widen like he’s said something scandalous. “You’re  _snowboarding_.”

“Holy shit, this is actually a thing. You guys have a fucking winter sports rivalry.”

“It’s more a school rivalry that manifests as a winter sports rivalry, but yeah. That’s a real thing.”

“And am I betraying my school by being a snowboarder? Because, honestly, snowboarding is cool and I don’t give a shit about anyone at this school except you.”

“Smooth,” she teases.

“I’m a real charmer.” He cocks his head at her. “How can I expect this to affect my life? Am I going to get even more shunned than I already am? Do I get to use the cool side of the mountain because I go to Alpha, or does being a snowboarder override that? Is there really a cool side of the mountain?” he adds. “I honestly thought most of this was Miller fucking with me.”

“You wish,” she says. “There’s definitely a good and bad side of the mountain, and probably if any of the academy kids see you snowboarding on the good side, they’ll probably tell you to leave.”

“So, the same thing they always do when they see me.”

“Pretty much.”

“Awesome. I’m gonna grab Miller and go check out some trails. You want to come?”

She grins. “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.”

Between Clarke and Miller, he was already taking the whole thing fairly seriously, but he still wasn’t entirely prepared to be on the slopes for less than half an hour before Finn Collins, his least favorite Alpha asshole, shows up to start making trouble. Finn seems to be jealous because he thinks Clarke likes Bellamy better than him, which from what Bellamy can tell, she should and does. But it means he’s even more of a dick about the whole snowboarding thing than he probably would be otherwise, and Bellamy’s always kind of a dick and has been looking for an excuse to fight Finn for a while.

“So, in conclusion,” he tells his grandfather that night, “I need tips.”

“Tips?”

“I’m not saying snowboarding is exactly like surfing, but you’ve been in a lot more competitions than I have.”

“I think you need to explain this to me again. Slowly.”

“Vermont has stupid sports rivalries too, pretty much.”

“See? You can be happy wherever you go.”

He snorts. “Yeah, thanks.”

“So, you’re having a snowboarding contest with some rich kid so you can use the mountain like you want to and get the girl? That’s the plot of every beach movie I’ve ever seen. It really is like you never left home.”

“You just say that because you don’t know how cold it is.”

“I’m sure you’re fine.”

“It could be worse,” he admits. “At least if I win this thing, I’ll do some good. So, what have you got? What’s your secret?”

“I believe in myself.”

“And?”

“And I’m better than everyone else.”

“Great,” he says. “Really helpful. Thanks a lot.”

“Any time. You’re going to be fine, Bellamy. You’ve got this.”

“You think?”

“You’re better than everyone else too,” says Lolo. “What more do you need?”

It’s not that comforting, but it’s all he’s got. He’s a good athlete, and Finn is putting all this time and effort into cheating, which is theoretically great, except that all it’s really doing is distracting him.

So, as villains go, he’s kind of inept, but that works for Bellamy. His grandfather might not actually give great advice when he’s asked for it, but he taught Bellamy plenty over the course of years of surfing lessons, and Finn kind of sucks. So he wins, and gets the right for everyone to play whatever winter sport they want, or something, and Miller hugs him, and Clarke hugs him, and then Clarke  _kisses_  him, and overall it’s really quite a victory, even if it’s fucking freezing.

“You didn’t do that just to piss Finn off, did you?” he asks Clarke, brushing his nose against hers.

“Would that be a bad thing?” she teases.

“ _Clarke_.”

She grins and tugs him down again, mouth so warm in the icy air. “Just like half to piss off Finn,” she murmurs, and he laughs.

“I can probably live with that.”

And, really, he can. Vermont might not have been his first choice, but he has to admit it’s growing on him.


	2. Roll Up the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [queensusan](http://queensusan.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke Much Ado About Nothing AU

Clarke wants to be excited about Lincoln’s wedding, she really does. And she mostly is. She likes Octavia, and Lincoln loves Octavia, and it’s going to be a sweet ceremony.

It’s just that she’s in the wedding party, and so is Octavia’s brother, which means she’s going to have a whole weekend of having to interact with him.

In theory, she should like Bellamy Blake, the same way that in theory she should be excited for this wedding. Bellamy isn’t a bad guy; he’s smart and interesting and aggressively liberal, and on paper, they should probably be friends. And if they could stop fighting for more than ten minutes, they might be.

As it is, though, it’s shaping up to be an awkward weekend.

“I need you to make sure we don’t fuck anything up,” Clarke tells Raven and Monty.

Raven and Monty exchange an unimpressed look, which Clarke can’t deny she deserves. She tries not to put the burden of her personal grudges on other people, but in her defense, this is a special occasion.

“Fuck anything up how?”

“This is Lincoln and Octavia’s  _wedding_ ,” she says. “The last thing I want is for me and Bellamy to make a scene with some dumb fight. I’m not asking you to hold me back or anything, just–help me be on my best behavior.”

“You ever think it’s a warning sign that you need to call in support to make sure you don’t ruin a wedding?” Raven asks.

“I’ve never needed to do it before!”

“I don’t know about that,” says Monty, thoughtful. “This is the first time you’ve asked, but I bet you’ve gotten in at least one fight at a wedding that could have been prevented with the buddy system.”

She pauses. “Okay, yeah, possibly. Which is all the more reason for you guys to help! All I want to do is make it through the weekend without making Lincoln and Octavia worry about me and Bellamy. It’s their wedding, they shouldn’t have to be putting out fires.”

“That’s legitimate and considerate,” says Monty. “Even if it’s sad that you can’t trust yourself to just leave him alone.”

“I can’t trust  _him_  to leave  _me_  alone.” Raven and Monty both look like they’re about to call bullshit on that one, so she hastens to add, “Okay, I don’t trust myself either. He just rubs me the wrong way!”

“Have you ever tried letting him rub you the right way?” Raven mutters, and Monty snickers.

Clarke ignores them. “I just want this to be a good weekend for everybody, okay?”

“Good goal,” says Raven. “You want to come up with a code word or something? You say it when you need help, or we say it when we think you need to leave a conversation.”

“If we have an actual code word, someone is definitely going to notice,” says Monty, not unreasonably. “Just text us if you need us.”

Raven snorts. “ _Sorry, one sec, just need to text my friends so that I won’t punch you_.”

“He probably gets that a lot,” says Clarke. “Or he just gets punched.” She lets out a long breath. “Okay. Whatever. It’s a wedding. We’re going to have fun. Me and Bellamy aren’t going to murder each other.”

“It’s good to have goals,” says Monty, but he claps her on the shoulder with a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”

“Yeah,” Raven agrees. “It’s going to be fun.”

*

In her defense, Bellamy does find her first. In his defense, it’s for official business.

“Hey, princess,” he says, with a nod. “O needs someone to go pick up gift bags. You’ve got a car, right?”

“Do you not have a car?” she asks, frowning. The wedding is at a cute little inn in the middle of nowhere; she thought  _everyone_  had a car.

“Miller and I carpooled, he’s picking Lincoln’s grandmother up from the airport. You mind driving some more? Or I can drive if you trust me with the car.”

She glances at Raven and Monty who are somehow  _already_  not helping with this. It’s been less than five minutes, and the whole plan is already falling apart.

Then again, if it’s just her and Bellamy in the car, it’s not like they can stress Lincoln and Octavia out. They’ll be on their own, away from everyone else, and maybe they can get all the fighting out of their systems now and be good for the rest of the weekend. And it’s not like she can say no without coming across like an asshole.

So she tosses him her keys. “You can drive. If you crash my car, I’m going to kill you.”

“If I crash your car, I’ll probably die in the crash and save you the trouble. Do you need to drop anything off?” he adds, actually looking a little sheepish. “I know you just got here, but I figure it’s going to be that kind of weekend.”

“Yeah, I don’t mind. I assume we need the room in the car, so let me get my stuff in my room. Shouldn’t take long.”

For a minute, it feels as if things might be different, better. Bellamy helps her take her bags up and asks how her job is going, polite and clearly on his best behavior, and Clarke responds in kind.

Then he turns on the car and the CD starts playing and he groans, “Jesus, is this yours?” and just like that, they’re off. Arguing about music turns into arguing about pop culture and then the gritty realism trend in media and beyond. By the time they get back to the inn with the gift bags, she’s wondering how it took them as long as it did to start fighting. Even ten minutes seems like a major victory.

Which is why, before they leave the car, she grabs his arm. “Look,” she says. “I know you don’t like me, and the feeling is mutual. But this is your sister and one of my best friends getting married. The least we can do is try to get along for a weekend so they don’t have to put up with us.”

His mouth tugs up at the corner. “We’re setting the bar that low, huh?”

“Sorry, do you think that’s not a stretch goal for us?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll try to stay away from you.”

“And not say shit about my music.”

“Let’s not get carried away.” He wets his lips, gives her a look she can’t quite read. “Okay, so–have a good weekend.”

“You too,” she says. “Looking forward to not seeing you.”

He snorts. “Same.”

*

It lasts about three hours, until the rehearsal dinner, when Clarke gets three cocktails in she can’t help thinking that going to antagonize Bellamy is a great idea. After all, he’s  _right there_ , and his hair is a mess, and he’s wearing the hell out of his suit.

Which obviously isn’t the reason to talk to him. There’s another reason to talk to him. Like proving she can. They can totally get along.

“Hi,” he says, when she makes her way over to him. “I thought we were avoiding each other.”

“ _No_ ,” she says, pointed. “We’re just trying to get along.”

“By not seeing each other.”

“That’s one option. But we could also, you know–” She waves her hand, and his mouth twitches. “We can be adults.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And I’m an adult.”

“Yeah those are both definitely true.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips, which is distracting. “I’m not drunk, so I’m going to make the smart decision here and leave this conversation before it goes wrong.”

“We don’t  _have_  to fight,” she says. “You’re not always an abrasive asshole. Sometimes you’re actually kind of okay.”

“Wow, yeah. This is really convincing me we’re going to be fine.” He takes a sip of his drink, looks around like he’s checking for witnesses. “Do we have a safe topic of conversation?”

“I’m really happy for Lincoln and Octavia.”

“Huh,” he says, neutral, and Clarke stares.

“Wait, are you actually saying you’re  _not_  happy for them?”

“No, I said  _huh_. Totally different thing.”

“But you’re not happy for them.”

“I’m happy for them. I just don’t get the big deal about marriage.”

She frowns, looks down at her glass like it will have some kind of explanation for her. But, of course, nothing. “What’s to get? It’s marriage.”

“Yeah, and I think it’s kind of–” He shrugs one shoulder. “Aside from tax benefits, it doesn’t make much sense to me, as an institution. It feels outdated. So, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy that they found each other and love each other, but this seems like kind of a huge waste of money.”

Clarke wouldn’t have said she was a huge supporter of marriage, but it wasn’t as if she was  _against_  it, either. Marriage is marriage; she always figured someday she’d meet someone she liked enough to spend the rest of her life with, and then she’d marry them.

“So, you think weddings are too expensive.”

“That’s objectively true. But I also think–” He shrugs. “I don’t see the appeal. I’m not religious, and I don’t like–I don’t want to force someone to be with me.”

“It’s not forcing someone,” she says. “They agreed to marry you.”

“And if they change their mind, it’s a huge fucking pain.”

“So, your objection to marriage is that you might eventually get divorced? And if you do, it’s harder than if you weren’t married?”

“How is that not true?”

“Maybe some people want that. Maybe that’s part of the appeal. You like someone so much you’re willing to attach yourself to them, and willing to put up with all the trouble of getting rid of them if you ever want to. They’re worth fighting for and keeping.”

Clarke didn’t have much of a plan going into that speech, but once she gets through it, she feels like it’s pretty good. Very stirring.

So it’s annoying when Bellamy says, “Yeah, no.”

“No? Just like that, no.”

“Just like what? I’m not saying that you can’t get married, just that I don’t want to.”

“What if you were in a serious relationship with someone who cared about it? Is it a deal breaker for you?”

He has to think that over. “I don’t think I could ever marry anyone who wanted a giant wedding. You don’t think that shows a major difference in values?”

“I think–”

“Clarke!” says Monty. “Great. Come with me, I need you.”

“What?” Clarke asks, but he’s already dragging her away.

“We had a plan, remember?” he asks. “No Bellamy. For everyone’s own good.”

“Yeah, but–” She frowns. “It was going okay.”

“You were about to start yelling at him.”

It’s probably true, but still. “I was having fun.”

Monty sighs. “Yeah. I know. That’s the problem.”

*

She’s assuming they’ll pick up the conversation the next time she sees him, but Bellamy’s acting weird the next day, actually avoiding her, which she’ll admit she wasn’t expecting. They’ve said they’re going to have a truce before, and they’ve always managed to find each other and start fighting in no time. That’s just how they are. She doesn’t get why Bellamy is suddenly actually doing his part for peaceful relations.

Or she doesn’t until she overhears Monty and Bellamy’s friend Miller talking on her way to Lincoln’s dressing room.

They don’t see her, of course, but she catches Monty saying her name, and she can’t help stopping to listen in.

“Of course he wants to talk to Clarke,” Miller replies, to whatever Monty said. “Come on, you know he’s totally in love with Clarke. But he doesn’t know how to interact so he just does that fucking dumbass middle-school shit instead of having a fucking conversation.”

“That sucks. I feel like if they could ever stop arguing, they might have a shot.”

“Story of Bellamy’s life. Avoiding her might be an improvement, I don’t fucking know.” He sighs. “Whatever. Want to get in a round of Mario Kart before the ceremony?”

They leave, but Clarke is stuck, rooted to her spot.

Bellamy’s in love with her.  _Bellamy_. The guy she can’t stop fighting with. The guy who just the other night told her how he doesn’t believe in marriage.

Bellamy.

It distracts her all through the wedding, not that that’s a surprise. Bellamy’s right across the aisle from her, his hair somewhat in order for once, wearing a tux, and he’s always been handsome, but–

Fuck, he’s so hot. He’s hot and smart and she never runs out of things to say to him, and they might fight, but she doesn’t actually get mad at him much, not really. They bicker, and they disagree, but he always has an interesting point of view.

She missed fighting with him, this weekend. She had to stop herself going to look for him, and she’s been thinking about him basically non-stop, even before she heard he was in love with her, and now she knows he is, and, honestly, it’s the best news she’s had this weekend. Hell, this  _year_. It’s not even close.

He dances the father/daughter dance with his sister, and once that’s done, Clarke goes to him.

“Not worried about making a scene?” he asks, mild. Clarke knew he had a lot of freckles, but it’s hitting her hard now. “We’re talking again?”

“I wanted to ask you to dance, actually.”

“Dance?”

She just holds out her hand, and when he takes it, his smile shy, it feels like possibilities, and when he kisses her at the end of the night, it feels like a promise.

*

Raven spills the beans three weeks later, when they’re all out for drinks.

“I’m so fucking glad that worked.”

Clarke frowns. “What worked?”

Raven, Monty, and Miller exchange looks. “Uh, you didn’t figure it out?” she asks.

“Figure what out?”

“We might have told some deliberate lies and had you guys eavesdrop on us,” Monty says. “Me and Miller spent like three hours trying to position ourselves so you’d hear us talking about how you were in love with each other.”

It’s Clarke’s turn to look at Bellamy, who shrugs one shoulder. “I missed that. But it’s not like they were wrong.”

Her smile goes goofy. “I guess not. As long as I don’t want to marry you,” she teases.

“It’s not a deal breaker,” he says, grinning. “If you ever want to marry me, we can talk about it.”

And, admittedly, a few years later she does, but mostly for the tax benefits. They go to the courthouse and have a nice dinner, and after, she says, “Thanks for compromising your principles to marry me.”

He kisses her shoulder. “Just don’t make me get a divorce, okay? That would be a pain.”

“Deal,” she says, and she never does.


	3. I Gotta Wear Shades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [kingkingmae](http://kingkingmae.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: clarke starts wearing bellamy's glasses by accident and he doesnt know how to ask for it back because it's clarke wearing his glasses

It really is an honest mistake, at least to begin with.

Here’s the thing: Clarke is incapable of holding onto sunglasses. It’s like some sort of weird disease; she’ll buy sunglasses, wear them once or twice, and then lose them. It’s not a purposeful thing, they’re just somehow very hard for her to keep up with. She has the same issue with chapstick, which is why she ended up leaving one at home and one at her desk at work and asking Bellamy if she can borrow his when they’re out in public.

Which is not how she ends up stealing his sunglasses. It’s just a coincidence.

What actually happens is that she’s in a hurry to get to work, and when she finds a pair of sunglasses, she just assumes they’re hers. After all, she’s had so many sunglasses over the course of her life that it’s hard to remember what all of them look like. They do seem nicer than her usual ones, and a little big, but it doesn’t seem particularly suspicious. She’s bought a lot of last-minute sunglasses just to have some.

And, she has to say, they look good on her. They’re a flattering style.

She’s still wearing them when she gets home, and Bellamy raises his eyebrows at her.

“What?” she asks.

“New sunglasses?”

She rolls her eyes, which he definitely can’t see. “You act like that’s a surprise. Do you know how much money I’ve wasted on sunglasses over the years? If I could just stop losing them I could buy a boat or something.”

“Which would be great, because you have so much to do with a boat. Also, you’d waste less money if you didn’t buy nice sunglasses.”

She takes them off, examining them. They really  _are_  nice. “Or maybe I’ll actually keep this pair.”

“That would be a miracle,” he says.

It feels like their standard shit-talking, so Clarke doesn’t think much of it. It’s not even unwarranted; she  _does_  lose sunglasses like it’s her job. But she likes this pair, and Bellamy actually keeps asking about them, which gives her incentive to keep them, because he just seems to be smugly waiting for her to lose track of them.

And, to be fair, at least twice his reminding her is the only reason she  _doesn’t_  forget them, so maybe she’d lose fewer sunglasses if he was constantly checking in.

When he buys her one of the chains like librarians have, that’s a little much, but she still wears it, about half to fuck with him and half because, like Bellamy’s check-ins, they actually  _do_  help her keep track of things.

It’s been about a month of that when she, Raven, and Octavia grab lunch one Saturday and Octavia asks, “Are those Bell’s sunglasses?”

Of course, her immediate reaction is to say no, but the answer dies on her tongue before she can voice it. Bellamy  _does_  have sunglasses of his own, and he generally gets nicer ones than she does. He has a few in rotation, but Clarke doesn’t pay a ton of attention to them. Sunglasses are sunglasses, and Bellamy looks good in all of them. She’s never noticed much about the specific style, except when he’s wearing aviators or something. Mostly, she just doesn’t know a ton about sunglasses.

But it would explain a lot.

“Are they?” she asks, casual. “I must have grabbed them by mistake.”

“Yeah, those are like his favorite ones. I can’t believe he left them out. You better not lose them.”

Raven snorts. “Good luck with that.”

It’s tempting to point out that she’s had these for  _a month_  and not lost them yet, but then Raven and Octavia will know both that she didn’t notice she had Bellamy’s sunglasses for a month and that Bellamy didn’t tell her, which will doubtless raise many questions she doesn’t want to deal with. Not with Raven and Octavia anyway.

“I’m not  _that_  bad,” she says, and lets them tell her how she really  _is_  that bad instead of saying anything more.

When she gets home, she doesn’t bring it up with Bellamy either.

“Still have my sunglasses,” she says, holding them up, and he snorts and shakes his head.

“Congratulations.”

*

“If I stole your sunglasses, would you tell me?”

Wells frowns. “How would I know? I assume you’d lose them before I saw them again. Is this your way of telling me you lost my sunglasses?”

“No, I didn’t lose your sunglasses. I don’t have your sunglasses. This is an actual hypothetical.” He makes a face, and she sighs. “These are Bellamy’s,” she says, tapping the glasses she’s wearing. “I took them by mistake last month.”

“And you still have them?” he asks.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“Remember when we were in high school and you lost a pair of sunglasses on the roller coaster at Six Flags and bought a new pair and lost that one before we got back to the bus? Because I do.”

“I’ve been working really hard to keep up with them.”

“Because they’re Bellamy’s?”

“No, I only found that out a couple days ago. But he’d been asking me if I’d lost them like ten times a day, which made it easier to not lose them and also should have tipped me off.”

“So, your question is if I would have just let you wear my sunglasses for a month without telling you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Definitely not.”

She sighs. “Yeah, I thought not. It’s weird, right? Why wouldn’t he just ask for them back? I would have given them to him.”

“Except now you know and you aren’t.”

“Because he didn’t tell me!”

“So he needs to be punished?”

“No, but–if he doesn’t want them back, why should I give them back? They’re the only sunglasses I’ve ever managed to hold onto, maybe it’s fate.”

“Uh huh.”

“Seriously, why wouldn’t he tell me? They’re nice.”

Wells sighs. “Look, you know I don’t like offering opinions on whatever the deal is with you and Bellamy,” he says. “But I would assume this was yet another step in your weird flirtation.”

“How is taking someone’s sunglasses a flirting thing?”

“I’m not saying I understand it, just that it’s the only explanation I’ve got. I wouldn’t do that, but I don’t have a thing for you. There’s the difference.”

“I don’t think that’s the only difference between you and Bellamy.”

“Seriously, I don’t have an explanation here. Maybe he thinks they look good on you.”

Clarke thinks it over. “If it was flirting,” she says, slow, “what would I do? Like–what’s the next step of flirting here?”

“Actually flirting with him like a normal person? I don’t know how to glasses flirt. That’s not a thing.”

“You’re not helpful.”

“Hey, I told you like three useful things. But yeah, there’s only so much I can do with this.”

“Yeah, okay,” she grants. “I’m on my own. Thanks anyway.”

“Good luck. And I do like the sunglasses,” he adds, making her smile.

“Yeah. Me too.”

*

“Do you think I should get glasses?” she asks Bellamy that night. He has a prescription, but his eyesight isn’t actually that bad, so he doesn’t wear his all the time.

Which means it’s easy for her to try them on.

He glances away from his grading, frowning. “It’s not really something you do just for fun. Do you think you need glasses?”

“Some people do them as a fashion statement now.”

“You want to get ironic hipster glasses?”

“I’m just wondering if I look good in glasses.”

“Everyone looks good in glasses,” he says, like this is a well-known fact.

“Really?”

“Maybe not  _everyone_. But I like glasses, yeah.”

“What about sunglasses?”

There’s an unmistakable tensing of his shoulders, but he keeps his voice steady. “What about them?”

“I really like how I look in those sunglasses I’ve got.”

“And you’re worried about inevitably losing them, so you want to replace them with ironic hipster frames?”

“I feel like I should give them back to you.”

He takes a second and then he asks, “How long have you known?”

“That I stole your sunglasses? About week. Octavia recognized them. And it did make sense. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You held onto them for a whole day, I wanted to see how long it could last. You should just always steal my stuff, if it helps you not lose it.“

“So, what, you think I subconsciously wasn’t losing those because deep down I knew they were yours?”

He shrugs. “It makes as much sense as anything. Will you take those off?” he adds, making a grab for his glasses, but she ducks out of the way.

“You weren’t even using them.”

“You can’t steal my actual glasses, Clarke.”

“Just your sunglasses.”

“They aren’t prescription.”

“Octavia said they were your favorites. The sunglasses.”

He wets his lips, watching her carefully. “They look good on you,” he finally says.

“Yeah?” she asks, grinning. “What about these? Do these look good on me too?”

“Clarke.”

“What?”

“You always look good. Take off my glasses before you permanently damage your eyes.”

She has to laugh. “Wow. Wells might be right, we really suck at flirting.”

“That wasn’t flirting, that was genuine concern.” He clears his throat. “Were you flirting?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t figure out what the next step from you apparently being into me wearing your sunglasses was.”

“Seriously, how did you come up with that?”

“Wells, like I said. I had to call in a consultation because I didn’t know what was going on.” For the first time, she realizes he hasn’t really confirmed anything, and her confidence wavers. Not that much, but–she does need to hear it. “He wasn’t wrong, right?”

His face breaks out in a grin, and he leans in, presses his mouth against hers, just a whisper of a kiss, but enough for a start. “I wasn’t really trying to flirt, honestly,” he says. “But, uh, you looked cute. And I kind of liked–I don’t know. It’s not like you’re wearing my shirts or anything, but it was cool that you actually managed to hang onto them.”

“So, just kind of a weird fetish for you,” she teases.

“ _You’re_  a weird fetish for me,” he shoots back, reflexive, and she snorts.

“Great burn.”

“It’s kind of true.” He pauses, scrubs his face. “So, this is the worst love confession ever, right?”

“Definitely,” she says, and tugs him back in for another kiss. “But it worked.”

He smiles, pressing her back onto the couch. “Well, as long as it worked.”

*

Two days later, she comes home wearing a pair of ironic hipster glasses with a new pair of sunglasses for Bellamy.

“Does this mean you lost mine?” he asks, wary.

“No. It means I’m planning to keep yours and you need a new pair.”

“These are a lot shittier than the ones you stole.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“Uh huh.” His eyes flick over her in a way that makes heat coil in her belly. “What about the other glasses?”

“For your weird fetish,” she says, with a shrug of one shoulder. “Assuming you’re interested.”

He grins, puts his papers aside and tugs her into his lap. “You know you don’t need to be wearing glasses to seduce me, right? I don’t mind, but all you have to do is exist and I’m sold.”

“You’re worth the effort.” She straightens her glasses with a smile. “Besides, I’m kind of starting to like them.”


	4. You've Got Mail Fraud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [legividivici](http://legividivici.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke AU where one of them is an FBI agent, and the other is a federal prosecutor that has to go undercover.

“Hey, I need your help with something.”

Bellamy looks up, surprised but not upset to see Clarke Griffin standing by his desk with a hopeful expression.

“My help?”

“It’s your job, right? Helping out citizens in need?”

“That’s exactly what the FBI does, yeah. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a lead I want to investigate, but it’s kind of–I don’t have enough to really justify putting anyone else on it, but I want to check it out.”

“So, obviously, the answer is to get an FBI agent on it. That’s how I like to do lowkey investigations.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

To be fair, there’s no universe in which he doesn’t want to know what kind of investigation Clarke would want his help on. She’s a federal prosecutor, and a good one; they’ve worked together on a few cases before, and sometimes hang out at government functions. He’d be offended if she came to anyone else with whatever request she has, honestly.

“Obviously. I’m dying of curiosity.”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Honestly, that pretty much guarantees I’m going to laugh. But tell me anyway.”

“I’ve got a mail fraud case.”

“You’re investigating  _mail fraud_?”

“It’s a federal crime, Bellamy!”

“Yeah, but it’s mail fraud. How much time does it even make sense to dedicate to mail fraud?”

“I’m sorry, are you saying we shouldn’t look into crimes that aren’t flashy enough?”

“I’m saying I’m not sure why you need a federal agent on this.”

“Because I shouldn’t be on it alone and I figured you might be willing to help out. I just want to investigate a little. Look into it. It might be nothing, but if it’s not—“

“Yeah, the cut-throat world of mail fraud is definitely something you need backup for.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, not amused. “So, you’re saying no?”

“No, I’m just making fun of you. What do you need? I do have a real job.”

“It’s still official federal business. I can work around your schedule,” she adds, when he keeps on looking unimpressed. “Just let me know.”

He sighs. “Yeah, I can be pretty flexible. As long as I can take off in case of emergency.”

“Obviously.” Her smile is warm. “Thanks, Bellamy. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Mail fraud’s a new one for me.”

“So it’ll be a learning experience.”

He snorts. “Exactly. Just tell me where and when.”

*

Technically, mail fraud is out of Bellamy’s jurisdiction, and he should have passed Clarke along to the postal service investigators, but it’s not like Clarke doesn’t know that, and she came to him anyway. And, well, he likes her. Any excuse to hang out is a good excuse, in his opinion.

Still, he’s not actually sure what they’re supposed to  _do_.

Clarke told him how to dress and where to meet her, so at least  _she_  has a plan. And it’s a Saturday, which means, on the one hand, he’s giving up his free time for this, but at least he’s not actually doing this on work time.

And he can think of worse ways to spend a day than hanging out with his favorite federal prosecutor. Especially when she’s buying him brunch.

“So,” she says, once they’ve ordered. “We’re a young couple looking for a new apartment.”

“Wow, this relationship is moving pretty fast. I feel like I just found out we’re a couple.”

She kicks him lightly under the table. “It’s a housing scam. If it’s a scam at all, I’m not sure.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “Okay, why don’t you give me the background here. How did you find out about this? I didn’t think you did a lot of fieldwork.”

“No,” she grants. “It’s actually my neighbor’s tip.”

“Your neighbor?”

“She’s a sweet old lady, but she can be kind of–paranoid. Her grandson got a letter about an apartment that sounds too good to be true. He’s excited, but she took the flyer he got and called and they wanted to get all sorts of information from her over the phone, and apparently the apartment still hasn’t materialized yet.”

“That does sound pretty sketchy,” Bellamy admits.

“Yeah, but part of her argument was also that it was in a bad neighborhood and he’d be moving too far away from her if it was real, so–” She shrugs. “It’s hard to tell how much of it really is a problem and how much of it was just her taking everything her grandson told her in the worst possible way.”

“Which is why you’re not immediately reporting it to the proper authorities?”

“She gave me the address, so I figured we could just swing by. If the mailing is real, it’s a new apartment building with a lot of open units, and I googled it and found a pretty convincing website. So if it’s a scam, it’s a detailed one. I figure we can look into it, get a sense of what it’s like, and, yeah. If it seems like a real issue, we report it.”

“Do you have the mailing?” he asks, tapping his mug with one finger.

She roots through her purse and produces it. It’s the kind of thing he’s seen before and usually just throws away without a second glance, standard spam mail. But if he was looking to move, he might pay more attention. The prices are good, not  _quite_  suspiciously good, but good enough he’d definitely be interested if it caught his eye. There’s a contact number, email, and website, as well as an address for the apartment complex and viewing hours.

“Huh,” he says.

“Yeah. I honestly don’t know.”

“It could be all of the information is legit except for the contact stuff,” he points out. “Or at least somewhat legitimate. There really is an apartment complex there, it really has openings, but whoever sent out the mailings is giving their contact information instead of the real contact information.”

“They could be,” Clarke admits. “It seems kind of risky to me? Just–all someone has to do is go to the actual site and ask about it and they’d know it was wrong.”

“All anyone has to do about a lot of scams is their due diligence. That might not be it, but it’s worth thinking about. We should grab their literature, compare it. If it looks similar enough, they might not have ever realized there were fakes going around.”

“That’s true. See, this is why I wanted you to come along, you have the background I need. Do we need to use fake names? I’ve never gone undercover before.”

He snorts. “Okay, we’re not really  _going undercover_. Right now we’re just two concerned citizens looking into something for a friend. Seriously, this isn’t my jurisdiction,” he adds. “I can’t be here in an official capacity.”

“So TV lied to me and FBI agents aren’t constantly stumbling over cases in their everyday lives that become personal vendettas?”

“Only if they’re in our jurisdiction. I do run into serial killers all the time, though.”

“At least there’s that.” She smiles. “Thanks for doing this with me. I know it’s not your thing, but–it just seems so likely it’s going to be nothing or not a big deal, I felt weird reporting it.”

“If you see something, say something,” he says, and she snorts.

“Well, we haven’t seen anything yet, right? Once we’re sure, that’s when we say something.” She nudges his foot under the table. “Seriously, fake names?”

“I think we can just stick with–” he starts, and stops.  _First names_  is pretty easy for most of his colleagues, when they want to keep a low profile, but he tends to introduce himself as  _Blake_ , since it’s so much less conspicuous.  _Bellamy_  and  _Clarke_  are kind of memorable. “Do you have a middle name?” he asks instead.

“Elizabeth,” she says, sounding a little smug.

“Okay, so you can go with that, and I’ll go with Blake. Still technically our names, just–less memorable.”

“I knew I could count on your expertise.” She smiles. “But seriously, thanks for helping me out with this. I know it’s not your job.”

“Literally,” he agrees, but he can’t help a smile. “No problem. It’s not like I was doing anything else.”

*

The apartment complex looks a good deal like the one on the mailing, albeit a little less shiny and new. They clearly took the picture on the sunniest day when the place was at its newest, and it’s already losing some of its polish.

“Okay, so, we’re a couple looking for an apartment,” says Clarke. “All I really want to do is see a unit and ask about the flyer. Is there anything else we should be doing?”

“Check the amenities they listed,” he says. “See what that looks like. It doesn’t have to be a mail scam, they could still be doing false advertising. And see if anyone’s actually living here.”

“Such a professional,” she teases, and then she slides her hand into his, which makes him feel distinctly  _un_ professional. He’s holding hands with a girl he likes, and it feels like a huge deal, like he’s a middle schooler and not a federal agent.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

*

It doesn’t go wrong right away. In fact, after twenty minutes of a benign, almost mind-numbly normal tour, Bellamy’s ready to bail on the entire thing. Clarke’s still holding his hand, which is a major plus, but it seems like they could probably just hold hands somewhere else. If she was enjoying that part as much as he was.

Their agent is finally starting to wind down, though, so he figures he’ll be done soon. She asks if they have any questions, and Clarke, still somehow on task, pulls out the flyer. “Is this contact number correct if we need more information?”

The woman glances at the flyer, clearly about to say yes, but then she does a double-take, eyes widening as she takes in the information.

“Oh,” she says, careful. “Yes, that should be a correct number. Let me go and make sure, I believe that’s an agent who’s no longer working with the company.”

It doesn’t take a federal agent to think  _that_  reaction is weird, and Clarke clearly notices as well. Bellamy looks around the reception room as discretely as he can, spotting a small camera in the corner with a blinking red light to indicate it’s recording.

So they should act natural.

“What do you want to do for dinner tonight?” he asks Clarke.

“Dinner?”

“I don’t think we have anything in the fridge, but we went out for lunch, so we should probably stop by the store on the way home.”

As he knew she would, she catches on quickly. “Yeah, that would probably be easiest. Maybe that chicken I found on Pintrest last week?”

“The stir fry?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that could be good. Pretty easy. Do you remember what was in the sauce?”

“Nothing we don’t have. Soy sauce, ginger, brown sugar.”

He could kiss her. He probably would, if he had a good excuse.

“If we forget something at the store, it’s your fault.”

She rolls her eyes. “We can figure out substitutions if we have to. But just chicken and vegetables should be fine. We have rice?”

“Yeah, I think we’re only like halfway through that giant bag.”

“Good.” She frowns, deliberate, and goes to the reception desk. “Is everything okay?” she asks the receptionist. “If there’s another number we should call–”

The receptionist gives her a customer service smile. “Just another minute, ma'am,” he says.

“The email address should still be fine,” Clarke says. “I wrote it down, we can just go.”

He thinks it’s a deliberate gambit. He can see from the slight anxiety in her eyes that she’s baiting–someone, and he gets it, but he’s not really sure he approves. On the one hand, he has trouble believing there’s really anything  _that_  shady about the flyer.

On the other, they agent was clearly not comfortable with them having it, and there must be  _some_  reason for that. He wouldn’t have recommended this exact tactic to figure out what, but judging by the expression that flickers across the receptionist’s face, it seems effective.

“I’ll just let them know you’re ready to leave,” he says, and Bellamy’s FBI instincts kick into high gear. He’s not sure what they’re going to do–committing any kind of violence against an unassuming middle-class couple seems several steps past stupid–but if they think this is just a cover, well.

It  _is_  just a cover. They’re two government employees who have stumbled on something weird. This doesn’t tend to have a happy ending for the two of them.

“We really should get going,” he says, and Clarke nods and starts for the door, and  _that’s_  when it goes wrong.

*

“I can’t believe we actually found a mob front,” Clarke says.

It wasn’t the worst fight Bellamy’s been in, and now that it’s over, his main takeaway is that Clarke is  _scrappy_. He’s into it.

“I can’t believe your neighbor’s grandson was so stupid he let his grandmother take his coded mafia correspondence,” he grumbles, and she laughs.

“Okay, yeah, that’s definitely the second least believable part of this whole thing.”

“What’s beating that?”

Clarke tucks a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. “I thought this was a totally bullshit made up issue and I just asked you to come check it out with me because I wanted an excuse to hang out.”

“So, the best excuse you could come up with to spend time with me was investigating mail fraud? Jesus, haven’t you ever heard of a date?”

“Investigating mail fraud is kind of a date!”

He snorts. “Wow. That’s—honestly, I think we can do better. Maybe just start with dinner. I actually do know a pretty good chicken stir fry recipe.”

She laughs. “So what you’re saying is that mail fraud and mob fronts actually work on you as a seduction technique.”

“Apparently, yeah. Not that you really needed to do anything special.” He offers his hand; they both got checked by a doctor and gave statements, so they’re done, at least for now. And he’s ready to be anywhere else. “You in?”

She lets him pull her up. “I’m in.”


	5. Good Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [fallen-sparrow](http://fallen-sparrow.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke + "Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812" AU

The first time Bellamy meets Clarke, he’s in his favorite bar, getting live-texts from his sister about a situation she should not be in but refuses to listen to his feedback on. Which is, honestly, the worst of all possible worlds, because if she’s not going to listen to him, the least she can do is not tell him what bad choices she’s making.

Instead, he’s getting texts like,  _Dude at this party is really hot!_  and  _He’s buying me a drink, should I give him my number???_

It’s not his business, if his sister flirts while she  _has_  a boyfriend. Octavia thinks of flirting as something akin to a sport, something she has to practice if she wants to keep being able to do it. And while he sort of understands that–Finn is just about his least favorite person his sister has ever dated–it still feels fairly cynical to him, to want to keep your flirting skills sharp when you’re  _in a relationship_.

But as Octavia has told him a thousand times,  _he_  doesn’t have to get it. It’s her life, and her business. Which is true, so she could just leave him out of it. That would be great.

Clarke sits down next to him and orders a gin and tonic, not that he knows she’s Clarke yet. She’s just a cute blonde girl.

“Dating issues?” she asks, after she’s taken a few sips of her drink.

He frowns. “What?”

“Just a guess, sorry. You keep getting text notifications, wincing, checking the phone, and then not responding. I was guessing either boss or dating, but if my boss was texting me at ten on a Saturday night, I’d mute her.”

He feels the corners of his mouth tug up. She’s cute and making the first move with conversation, which means he doesn’t have to feel like a creep about it.

“Yeah, no, none of the above. It’s my sister, live-texting flirting with a guy who isn’t her boyfriend.”

“Ouch. That sounds pretty bad, yeah.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, which doesn’t actually make it better for me, but it means she doesn’t think it’s a problem.”

Her phone buzzes, and she goes through the same process he did, checking the message, frowning, and closing it.

“What about you? Getting stood up?”

“Not exactly. My friend’s supposed to be meeting me here, but he’s running late because his date is going well.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Not like that.”

“Like what?” he teases. “I didn’t say what kind of problem it would be, so I don’t even know what you’re denying.”

“He’s one of those people who’s really good at first dates, I guess. I feel like every week he’s got a new date and he’s really excited about it, and then it just–never gets to a second date. It gets kind of hard to fake enthusiasm.”

He finishes his drink and Gina appears like magic in front of him. She has the best bartender senses of anyone he’s ever met.

“Refill?”

He frowns at his glass. “Vodka tonic,” he says.

“You got it. Pretzels?”

“Thanks.”

“I swear this isn’t a line,” says Clarke, “but do you come here often?”

He snorts. “Just because you don’t mean it as a line doesn’t mean it’s not a line. But yeah, this is my usual place. Not in an alcoholic way, just–”

“He works from home, so coming out to a bar counts as socializing, even when all he does is sit here and scowl at his phone,” Gina supplies.

“Thanks,” he says, dry. “You can leave this conversation any time, by the way.”

“Did you want anything else?” she asks Clarke, ignoring him.

“I’ll take a vodka tonic too, thank you. I think this is probably where I’m going to come when I’m waiting to find out if my friends actually want to hang out,” she adds, smiling at him a little. “So I’m looking for people to talk to so I can feel social.”

“And I seemed like your best bet?”

“Alone and annoyed, just my type,” she says, and he has to laugh. “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

“Bellamy.” He raises his glass. “To scowling at our phones?”

She smiles. “Cheers.”

*

As promised, she does become a regular, and Bellamy can’t help feeling a little, well, relieved about that.

The thing is, he moved to this city because his sister lived here, and a few months back, Octavia left, and he doesn’t really have many friends of his own. Not that he had many friends of hers either, but while she was here, he felt as if he had a reason to be here too, and without her, he feels unmoored. Gina is nice, and he likes her, but she mentioned the third week he was in that she had a girlfriend. Which obviously doesn’t mean they can’t be friends, but it’s actually a lot more awkward to try to make friends with a bartender than it is to hit on one.

So Clarke is nice. Once a week, he has a pretty girl to talk to, and it turns out she’s actually very good to talk to, largely because they always have the same thing to complain about.

Which mostly means that all of their friends are disasters, and they have a lot to worry over and complain about. Bellamy’s in a basically constant state of worrying about Octavia and Finn, and Clarke has not only her best friend Wells, who falls in love at every first date, but Lexa, her ex who doesn’t know how to flirt, Lincoln, the kindergarten teacher with too big a heart, and Monty, a newly out bisexual who’s trying and failing to use Grindr.

They’ve been hanging out every Saturday for four weeks when they discover that they’re actually getting live text updates of the same date.

“The guy’s name is Nate, he’s thirty, and he got arrested for stealing his dad’s police car when he was sixteen,” is how Bellamy figures it out.

“Wait, Monty’s on a date with  _Nathan Miller_?” he asks, pulling out his own phone to check what Miller had to say about his own date.  _Cute, geeky, hope it goes well_.

Clarke is frowning. “I didn’t get his last name. Nathan Miller like– _Miller_? Your best friend Miller?”

“I was there when he stole that police car.”

“That can’t be right,” she says, but her phone buzzes again, and she shows him the picture Monty sent, and there’s Miller, looking condescendingly amused as ever.

“Holy shit,” he says, as his own phone buzzes with a text from Miller:  _We want proof from you guys too_.

Clarke leans in while Bellamy tries to take a picture, but he’s awful at selfies so she takes over, snapping a few so she has choices. They look really cute together, if he does say so himself. Like they’re really friends.

“So, you’re from DC?” Clarke asks, once they’ve established for certain that the world really is this small.

“Yeah. I left for college and never moved back, but Miller went to Georgetown.”

“It’s cool that you guys are still in touch.”

“Didn’t you and Wells grow up together too?”

“We did, but we haven’t actually–I don’t know. I still see you more than I see him. And we’re still learning how to be friends again, I guess. When we don’t live in the same place, we usually don’t stay in touch very well. This is the most we’ve talked in years.”

“I think I’m actually better at keeping in touch with people when they aren’t around. Not that I didn’t see my sister when she lived here, but I’m always really afraid we’ll never talk to each other if we don’t live in the same place, so I put in the effort.”

“I guess that makes sense.” She smiles, bumps her shoulder against his. “So, if I move, we’re still going to be friends. This is what I’m getting.”

“I’d need your number first,” he says, somehow managing to sound casual. “Texting is my mail way of keeping in touch.”

“I’m not planning to move again for a while, but better safe than sorry. Give me your phone.”

She leaves before he does, because Wells’ date actually goes poorly for once, so they’re going to hang out.

“You want to come?” she asks.

“Maybe next time. You two have fun.”

“You just don’t want to hear about how Wells thinks he’s never going to find love.”

“Definitely not.” He raises his glass to her. “See you next week.”

Gina comes back over once she’s gone, shakes her head as she refills his drink. “You know when girls give you their numbers and ask if you want to hang out, it’s usually a sign they’re flirting.”

“Oh, is that what’s happening?”

“I know you’ve got this whole grumpy old man thing going, but you don’t actually have to hate everyone and die alone.”

“I’m thirty-two,” he says. “I’m hoping I won’t be dying alone for a while yet.”

“Still. She likes you, you could be friendly.”

“I’m friendly. And I don’t want to be one of those assholes who assumes every girl who’s nice to me is flirting.”

“Yeah, that only happens when you assume it about  _every_  girl. This is one girl. Who totally likes you.”

“Thanks.” He swirls his drink, watching the ice and vodka. “Maybe next time,” he says again. “I’ve got to build to it, right?”

“Build to not being lonely, discontent, and misanthropic?”

“Yeah, that’s going to take a while.” His phone buzzes, and he sees Clarke has texted,  _Fuck it’s so cold_. “But I’ve got her number,” he adds, with a smile. “So that’s a good start.”

*

**Me** : Have I mentioned lately how much I hate my sister’s boyfriend?  
It’s so much  
He’s the fucking worst

**Clarke** : You have  
But I never get tired of it  
He and my ex-boyfriend should swap notes

**Me** : Or get together with each other so no one has to deal with them any more  
I think O actually met a nice guy for once, too

**Clarke** : Really?

**Me** : Yeah  
One of her new coworkers  
He knows she’s taken so he’s not like saying anything  
But everything she says about him is like  
“Oh Mr. Oakley is so helpful”  
“Really nice”  
“You should see his arms Bell”

**Clarke** : Where does your sister live again?

**Me** : Atlanta  
Why?

**Clarke** : Okay this is getting creepy  
Come meet me for a drink

**Me** : It’s four pm

**Clarke** : The bar is open and you work from home  
See you in half an hour?

Clarke’s already there when he arrives, halfway into a vodka tonic, and he sits down next to her. Gina’s not in this early, and Roan is a lot judgier, but he makes very strong drinks to make up for it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your sister is Ms. Blake,” she says. When he frowns, she finishes her drink. “My friend Lincoln is Mr. Oakley, and he does like her, and we should just compare a list of every single person we know to make sure there’s no more overlap. My ex-boyfriend is in Atlanta, and at the rate we’re going, I’m just going to assume your sister is dating Finn Collins.”

Bellamy feels his stomach drop, and he looks down at his drink. “Seriously, how does this guy keep getting good girlfriends?” he grumbles, and Clarke actually falls onto his shoulder, she’s laughing so hard.

“I can’t believe Lincoln has a crush on your sister,” she says, once she’s recovered.

“I can’t believe he never called her  _Octavia_ , you would have known then.”

“Ditto Lincoln.” She shakes her head, still tucked into his side, which is nice. “Fuck. Small world, huh?”

“Disconcertingly, yeah.”

“All of our stories are going to get more awkward now, but I bet I can get your sister to break up with Finn.”

“Yeah?”

“He had another girlfriend when he was dating me, so–”

“Fuck. I knew I hated that guy.”

She frowns, thinking hard. “It might have even been your sister, actually. How long have they been together?”

They establish that, yes, Clarke used to live in Atlanta, and she was in a relationship with Finn, who was dating Octavia, and she left town and somehow found  _him_ , of all people.

“Seriously, what are the odds?”

“I wouldn’t even know how to calculate it.” He shakes his head. “I’m glad you dumped him. I hope O does too.”

“I hope if she starts dating Lincoln, she stops flirting with other people.”

“That too.” He looks her up and down, bites his lip. “Half of me wants to go kick his ass, honestly. You think I could take him?”

“I think you can probably come up with something better to do than fight Finn tonight.”

“Really? Because that sounds awesome.”

“There’s a meteor shower tonight,” she says, to his surprise. “We could watch that instead. I was going to ask.”

“A meteor shower?”

“No offense, but you seem like the kind of guy who would be into watching a meteor shower on the first date.”

“Is that supposed to be offensive? Who doesn’t like meteor showers?” He wets his lips, swallows. “I feel like this isn’t our first date, honestly. We’ve been getting drinks every week for months.”

“So, our first  _official_  date. You in?”

On the one hand, it’s too cold outside, and he needs to call his sister, and he’s still stupidly nervous, heart in his throat at the thought of putting himself out there again. It’s been a while since he dated anyone, and part of him thinks he might have forgotten how to.

But that’s not a good reason to go home alone. Not when Clarke’s offering.

“We can get onto the roof of my building,” he offers, and they get a blanket and a bottle of vodka, and he watches the stars with a pretty girl by his side and thinks this could be going somewhere good.

He thinks he’s ready for it.


	6. As In Olden Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [nfinitegladness](https://nfinitegladness.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke post break-up fic with a side of angst (and a happy ending), because that's just the kind of person I am. Preferably a modern AU set around the holidays, with Clarke and Bellamy in their late 20s.

There’s something uniquely, profoundly awkward about breaking up with someone right before the holidays, which is why Clarke makes probably the stupidest suggestion of her life.

“Maybe we just don’t tell anyone yet.”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows, looking dubious. He’s over to pick up some of his stuff and talk about next steps; it was supposed to be a pretty quick visit. “Don’t tell anyone?”

“It’s just such a nightmare, logistically.”

“Our breakup is a logistical nightmare. That’s what you’re going with?”

She winces. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What’s the other way to mean that?”

It’s not like she wasn’t expecting this conversation to suck. The whole experience has sucked, and it’s only right that it should keep sucking now.

Breaking up with Bellamy is the right decision, Clarke is pretty sure. They’ve been heading towards it for a while, bickering more than usual, short with each other and stressed out, and it felt only right to pull the plug, to end things before it got any worse. Bellamy took it with more grace than she hoped he would, if she’s honest. There’s something about a graceful breakup that makes it feel even shittier. Like if they can still have  _this_  discussion, they should be able to go a step farther and just not have to end it in the first place.

Maybe that’s why they’re having this conversation. He lulled her into a false sense of security, made her think it was a good idea.

“Do you really want to spend your entire holiday telling everyone why we aren’t showing up together? Why you’re not coming to New York with me? Why you suddenly need a new place to spend Christmas?”

He rubs his jaw. “Fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, soft. “I didn’t–I started thinking about it this morning and I thought–”

“No, you’re right,” he says. “I don’t want to deal with any of that. So–just through the start of the new year, right?”

“Yeah. So we don’t have to deal with parties and stuff.”

“Yeah, that would probably be easier. So, you’ll still come to the faculty holiday party?”

“And we’ll still drive over to New York for Christmas. We were never going to be there for that long anyway, so–”

“And then New Year’s at Monty and Miller’s.”

“And then we’re done, yeah. We can tell everyone we broke up after that.”

“Over and done with,” he agrees. “Sounds like a plan.”

She nods, trying to ignore the pang in her chest. This was  _her idea_ , all of it, and she’s getting everything she wanted. He’s agreed to all her terms.

This is supposed to be good news.

“So, see you at the holiday party?” he prompts, and she manages a smile.

“Yeah. See you then.”

*

When she thinks of it like that, as three events, it doesn’t sound so bad. One work party, a day and a half at her mother’s house in upstate New York, and then a party with friends to finish out the year. And then she and Bellamy will be done with each other, romantically speaking, and they can move on with their lives.

It’s going to be easy.

They go a week without talking, and she manages to only think about him every twenty minutes or so at work. It’s harder at home, of course; even though they never moved in together, they were on the brink of it, and Bellamy spent a lot of time here. He was the one who cooked dinner, and suddenly she’s faced with a fridge full of food and no idea what to do with it.

She resists the urge to ask him, so he’s the first one to reach out, but it’s just because the holiday party is in three days, and they have logistics to discuss. Not a big deal. Nothing important.

**Bellamy** : Do you want to go to the party together or separately?

**Me** : Together  
No offense, but I don’t want to be alone with your coworkers

**Bellamy** : Yeah, that’s what I figured  
Do you want me to pick you up?

**Me** : If it’s not too much trouble  
I could also take the train, if you need me to

**Bellamy** : No, it’s no problem  
I’ll get you at six?

**Me** : Sounds good  
Thanks

She’s ready a full half an hour early, she’s so nervous, but she makes herself wait until 6:25 to go downstairs, and she practically runs into Bellamy lurking in the entryway, clearly at war with himself about hitting the buzzer.

Her heart constricts at just the sight of him. “Hi.”

“Hey. I was, uh–” He clears his throat. “I was early, I wasn’t sure if you’d be ready yet.”

“Yeah, I got home early. Shall we?”

“Sure.”

In the car, there’s awkward silence for about five minutes until Clarke finally can’t take it anymore. “So, do you want me to do anything special? Start sowing the seeds of how we’re breaking up?”

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she regrets them, but Bellamy just snorts. “How would you do that? Do you have a specific strategy in mind or what?”

“I can be really drunk and obnoxious so everyone will think you dumped me for being an asshole.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they’d buy it.”

“Do you know what you’re going to tell them?”

“It’s easy for me,” he says. She knows it’s nothing personal, that he’s not looking at her; he’s driving, so of course he’s looking at the road. But it feels significant. His voice is casual, his favorite kind of armor. “You broke up with me. I don’t have to explain anything. You’re the one who has to come up with an explanation.” Now he does glance at her. “What are you going to tell everyone?”

“The same thing I told you. That it wasn’t working out.”

“I guess.”

Part of her wants to push him on it. There’s something about his voice that’s so careful, deliberate, like he’s reining in further commentary. But she did break up with him, and she would be an asshole for making him hash it out with her again. That’s over and done with.

“So, we’ll just be normal at this. Like nothing happened.”

“That’s the whole point, right? Put off the awkward  _what went wrong_  conversation until later.”

“If you changed your mind–” she starts, and he shakes his head.

“No. This is going to be–easiest. Just keep going like nothing happened.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Like everything’s fine.”

*

The holiday party is as awkward as she expected, a lot of people telling her and Bellamy what a great couple they make, asking if they’re going to get married soon, if they’re moving in together. At least two of his coworkers take her aside to tell her how much Bellamy loves her and how happy she makes him, and she can’t even get drunk because she’s afraid she’s going to fuck it up.

And that’s nothing compared to going to her mother’s.

First, they have to drive over, three hours of blasting the  _Hamilton_  soundtrack. In theory, it’s to avoid talking to each other, but of course they both have a lot to say about the music, and before she knows it they’re singing along, talking about their favorite parts, just  _talking_ , easier than it feels like they’ve been in months.

It’s so good, when they’re like this. It’s so hard to remember why she thought they had to break up. And he’s so  _perfect_  with her family, effortlessly charming, all smooth answers for the adults and soft smiles for the kids, this boy she still loves so much.

He even offers to sleep on the floor, and Clarke shakes her head. “Not unless you’re going to be–if you can’t share the bed, I’ll take the floor, you’re doing me a favor.”

“We can share,” he says.

He falls asleep faster than she does, always has, and she waits until he’s out before she slides out of bed, careful not to wake him, and goes downstairs to sit in front of the tree, watching the pattern of lights and trying very hard not to cry.

She must fall asleep there, because the next thing she knows, her mother is shaking her awake.

“What are you doing down here, honey?”

She makes herself smile. “I just like looking at the tree.”

“Yeah, try again. You were acting strange last night too. Did something happen?”

She looks around, but they’re alone, and her mother is good at keeping secrets. She leans her head on her shoulder, like she’s a child again. “I broke up with Bellamy. We didn’t want to–it seemed easier to wait until after the holidays to tell people, when we’d already made plans. But it’s over.”

There’s a long pause, and then her mother asks, “So you broke up with him, and then he drove three hours with you across state lines to spend Christmas with your family, and not his, so it wouldn’t be awkward?”

“Octavia was going out to Oregon with Lincoln anyway, so it’s not like he had somewhere else he was going.”

“Mm,” she says, noncommittal. “And why did you break up with him?”

“Because it feels like all we do lately is snap at each other. And it’s just–I’m only twenty-seven, it’s not supposed to be this hard yet, right?”

“I guess that depends. I don’t know what the two of you were going through, but–just because something’s hard doesn’t mean it’s bad. And anyone who agrees to come with you to a family holiday after you broke up with him, well–that’s a lot of love, Clarke.”

“It’s not like that,” she protests, but it feels weak. It was her idea, and he just rolled with it. He’s been the perfect boyfriend all weekend, and he’s so– “I broke up with him,” she says. “I hurt him.”

“So apologize, and ask if there’s anything you can do to make it better. I don’t know if you can. Maybe he thinks this was the right decision too, I don’t know. Maybe it’s too late. But–I don’t think you want to lose him, Clarke. Not like this. You might not last, but–I think if you were really ready to let go of him, you wouldn’t have asked him to come with you. Even if it’s easier.”

She swallows hard, trying to get past the lump in her throat. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Are you sorry?” her mother asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you still love him?”

“Of course I do.” That was never a question, not really. She loves him so much it feels like she can’t breathe, sometimes. Love was never the problem.

“Then that’s what you say.” Abby squeezes her knee. “Merry Christmas, sweetie. I hope the two of you can work it out.”

Clarke exhales, lets herself lean on her mother, just or a minute. “Yeah. I do too.”

*

It feels easy in the early hours of Christmas morning, but then everyone wakes up, and they have so many things to do, and even with hours to drive in the car, she doesn’t know how to say it there. Her mother made it sound so easy, but–he must be so angry with her. She’s the one who dumped him. And he let her, so he probably doesn’t–

It doesn’t feel like she can just ask him to forget about it. He’s probably already moved on.

By New Year’s Eve, she’s in both better and worse shape. She’s sure she wants to apologize and make it work, but she still doesn’t know what to say.  _I’m sorry, I was wrong, we shouldn’t break up_  still feels insufficient.

But she misses him like she lost a limb, like she’s never missed anyone else she broke up with, like she’s never missed anything. And this is the end, too; if she doesn’t ask him at this party, then they’re done. They’re broken up and it’s over.

**Me** : I assume you’re not driving to Monty and Miller’s?

**Bellamy** : Safe bet  
But we don’t have to show up to that one together, right?  
They’re our friends  
You can survive on your own

**Me** : No  
But they’re going to expect us to show up together  
I thought I could come to your place?  
It’s on the way

**Bellamy** : If you want, yeah  
Up to you

Which is how she ends up outside her ex-boyfriend’s apartment at 7:30 on New Year’s Eve, and why, when he opens the door, she blurts out, “I love you and I shouldn’t have broken up with you and I’m so sorry.”

Bellamy’s already dressed to leave, devastatingly handsome in a black peacoat and red scarf, but the sudden admission is enough to stop him in his tracks.

“Sorry,” she adds. “I just–I needed to say it. In case you–”

He’s kissing her before she can finish, this hot, desperate kiss that feels less like agreement and more like terror, like he was so sure he’d never get to do this again, like he still thinks she’s going to change her mind and he has to do this before she does.

She pushes him back into the apartment without breaking the kiss, closing the door with her foot as they go.

“Clarke–” he starts, breathless, and she kisses him again.

“Seriously, I was an idiot.”

“Yeah?”

“It felt like–” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. We were in a rough patch, right?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think it was bad enough we had to break up,” he adds, less accusatory than she thinks she probably deserves.

“I know.” She tucks her hair back. “It felt like–if it was hard, maybe that was a sign. That we should just give up.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” he says, mild, and she buries her face against his neck.

“I said it was stupid. I thought it would help, and it was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

“I know.” His lips press against her hair. “Fuck, Clarke. I wanted to tell you every fucking day that we could make it work.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You broke up with me.”

Her laugh is a little watery. “Okay, yeah. If I ever do that again, tell me I’m being an idiot, okay? Just–argue with me. You love arguing with me.”

“Maybe just don’t break up with me again,” he teases, but the joke doesn’t reach his eyes. “That would be a lot easier.”

“Deal.” She pulls away, sniffling a little. “So–we’re going to this party?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re my boyfriend again.”

“I’m still your boyfriend, yeah.” He bites the corner of his mouth. “Seriously, Clarke, please don’t–that fucking sucked, I thought you weren’t going to–”

“I know.” She straightens his hat on his head, pats down the front of his coat, and leans up for one more kiss. “I promise I’ll never break up with you again. Not unless I’m really sure. But you can do it once to me. If you need to. Fair’s fair.”

He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. I’d rather stay together, though.”

“Me too,” she admits.

So they do. And it really is much better, all things considered.


	7. Reasonable Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [crispreading7](https://crispreading7.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: TV show Doubt Au with bellarke with Clarke being the doctor on trail for murder who falls in love with her lawyer Bellamy

“Not,” says Wells, “to state the obvious, but I definitely wouldn’t want to date someone who was accused of murdering their high-school boyfriend.”

Clarke scowls at him. “So, one murder accusation and I can never date again?” she asks, but as soon as she’s said it, she knows exactly how bad it sounds, and she puts her head down on Wells’ kitchen table before he can respond. “Yeah, okay, I know, I know. But you know I didn’t do it. You were there.”

“I know.”

The thing about an accusation like this resurfacing after twenty years is that Clarke doesn’t actually know how to believe him, if she’s honest. It’s been so long that memories have faded, that even her own certainty has been replaced with fog and insecurity. She knows she didn’t kill Finn, but so much that might have exonerated her is lost now, the details of what she was doing on specific days familiar only from her testimony at the time. She remembers exactly where she was when she heard Finn was dead, knows the last time she saw him alive, and the days after the death are painfully clear, the awkwardness of being in school with a person  _gone_ , the way she and her friends would stutter away from saying things like, “I hate this class so much, I wish I was dead” for months after.

But there wasn’t anything remarkable for her in the days before his death, and the investigation was perfunctory, the whole thing ruled an accident, so she never spent time retracing her steps or constructing an alibi. His parents had never been happy with that, had always been convinced something more had happened, and Clarke gets it, but–it wasn’t  _her_.

But now the case has been reopened, and if she were Wells, she’d probably be wondering if there was any merit to the arguments. Just a little bit.

“I’m not saying you can’t even hit on your hot defense attorney,” he goes on, into the somewhat awkward pause. “I just think it’s probably better for everyone if you wait until the trial is over before you do it. And he still might not ever date clients.”

“Which would be a good policy that I’d respect,” she says. “It’s not like I was  _planning_  to fall for him.”

“I know.”

“Why couldn’t we have met somewhere else? He’s a lawyer, he probably goes to the same stupid charity things I do. Kane and my mom are friends, we could have met a thousand different ways, and instead it’s  _this_. Which isn’t the worst part of being accused of murder, obviously,” she adds. “Not even close. But–everything sucks right now.”

“I know,” he says again. “Look, I’m the last person who’s going to tell you to just sit back and trust the criminal justice system, but it’s probably not a bad thing that you like your lawyer enough that you’re falling for him. That means he’s one of the good ones. But if anything happens between the two of you, you know how the prosecution would play that. You seduced him to get him on your side, you’re manipulating him, the two of you are conspiring–”

“I know. I know! I’m not going to do anything. Just–this sucks. Everything about this is awful, and even the one good thing about it is–complicated and stupid, and I can’t even enjoy it. Because he’s my lawyer, and for all he knows, I  _did_  kill Finn.”

“You know he doesn’t think that,” Wells says. “It’s just hard to prove.”

“Yeah, that helps.” But she smiles. “Thanks for talking me down. I won’t make out with my hot lawyer until he–”

Wells smirks.“You were going to say  _gets you off_ , weren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

He claps her on the shoulder. “He can get you off, and then get you off.”

“How long have you been sitting on that one?”

“Hey, if your best friend doesn’t bring a little levity to your murder trial, who will?”

“Yeah,” she says, with a roll of her eyes that feels almost normal. “Thanks.”

*

Work is probably the part of her life she feels simultaneously most and least awkward about, after the murder trial. She thought about taking a leave of absence, but without work to distract her, she thought she’d lose it. Sitting alone at home waiting for the trial date is about the worst thing she can think of.

Not that work is much better. Clarke’s worked hard to get where she is today, a successful and well-respected pediatric surgeon, and while desperate parents aren’t really in a position to turn down someone who can help their sick child, she can always tell who’s heard about the case and who hasn’t.

But it still beats obsessing by herself. Sometimes, she can forget what’s happening for hours at a time.

At least she can when Bellamy doesn’t show up at her office out of nowhere, anyway, but she gets back from a meeting to find him sitting outside her door, wearing one of his stupidly attractive suits, all his focus on his phone until she clears her throat. And then he looks up, smiling, his glasses crooked on his face, and that’s worse.

He’s so fucking unfair.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for my niece to be born. I texted you, but I figured you were probably in surgery. O said I was making her nervous and needed to leave. But with a lot more profanity.”

“So you came to me.”

“I figured you’d let me hang out in your office until Lincoln told me I could come down. But if I can’t, I’ll go to Starbucks.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says, unlocking the door. “I’ll kick you out if I need privacy for anything, but I don’t have any office visits today.”

“Cool, thanks.”

He settles into a chair, unpacking his laptop now that he’s more in private, and Clarke lets herself watch him for a long moment, the perfect line of his jaw, the scar on his lip that catches her eye every time she looks at him.

It’s not just that he’s attractive, of course. She likes  _him_ , this self-deprecating, self-conscious, brilliant man, who’s so easy to talk to, even about the worst things that have ever happened to her, first Finn’s actual death and the trauma of dealing with it the first time, and now reliving it, distant but still painful, with the added horror of being the one accused of doing it.

But that’s his job. He’s supposed to be good at that. It’s not personal.

“Is that my case?” she asks, when she can’t handle silence any more.

“Hm?” he asks. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sorry, is that weird? Do you want me to–”

“It’s fine. I guess you can ask me questions, if you need to.”

“I think I’ve got about all I need from you,” he says. “You’ve been helpful. It’s just putting together the argument now. It would be nice if we could–” He huffs. “Not that I love accusing other people of crimes, but I like having an alternate story to present, and we don’t have a great one.”

“The old explanation doesn’t work? That it was an accident, not homicide?”

“That’s not as satisfying. I think it probably was, to be clear,” he adds. “No offense to your boyfriend, and not to speak ill of the dead, but from what I read he wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb. I get why his parents would want a better explanation than  _he shot himself fooling around with a gun_ , but ballistics, police reports–it all supports that reading.”

“But I had motive.”

He shrugs. “ _Motive_  is a strong word. I get that he cheated on you, but by all accounts, you guys talked it over and you forgave him. If you were going to murder him for it, I feel like you would have done it sooner.”

She can’t help a smile. “That doesn’t feel like the best argument to make. Not that I wouldn’t kill him, just that I wouldn’t kill him  _then_.”

“Honestly, it’s hard to sell anyone as incapable of murder. That’s not a good tactic to take. But you were seventeen years old and by all accounts happy.”

“Is that why you think I didn’t do it?”

It takes him long enough to respond that she starts to get nervous. “No, not really. You’re smart. If you did it, I think you would have done a better job with your alibi.”

“Seriously?” she asks, laughing.

“Yeah, you would have a story you’d still remember twenty years later because you’d know it might come back up. But it never even occurred to you that there was more to the story.”

“Maybe I knew you’d think that.”

He smiles. “Maybe. But I think if you’d killed him, you wouldn’t have been able to move on like this. It doesn’t seem like how you’d be. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. I don’t have to believe you to represent you.”

“I need you to believe me,” she admits, and he looks up at her, eyes too sharp. “Is that weird?”

“No, it’s pretty normal.” He clears his throat, self-conscious. “I do believe you, Clarke. I don’t think you did this.”

“Thanks.” The air is too heavy, and she looks away from him, unable to handle the look in his eyes. “So get back to work on convincing everyone else,” she tells him, and he shakes his head, as if he needs to clear his brain, and smiles down at his laptop.

“Yeah. I’m on it.”

*

She kisses him the day before the trial starts, when they’re up too late preparing and he’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and yanked his hair out of any semblance of order, taken his contacts out in the bathroom and switched them for glasses. They’re exhausted and a little giddy and she can’t help it, and for a minute it’s perfect, his mouth sliding against hers, his hand coming up to cradle her face, his lips soft and willing.

And then he pulls back, looking more sad than anything.

“We can’t do this,” he says.

“I know.”

His mouth quirks up, and all she wants to do is pull him back in. She’s been single since she and Lexa broke up last year, and she’s missed having someone to care about, to have someone to hold her, someone to–

Someone to love.

She’d like if he was the next person she tried that with.

“I keep thinking about all the other times we could have met,” he admits, sliding his hand down to take hers. “We’ve both lived here for years, there must have been so many events we were both invited to, probably even some we both went to. I wish I’d met you any other time.”

“Yeah, I know.” She wets her lips, tries not to notice the way Bellamy tracks the motion. He’s so close and he’s warm and smells so good, and it would be so  _easy_. “How long do you think the trial will take?”

“Way too long.”

She squeeze his fingers. “Well, as long as I’m not guilty–”

That makes him laugh, burying his face against her neck. “You’re lucky I think you’re innocent, or I’d be worried this was a ploy,” he teases.

“Did you actually need any more motivation? I thought getting the non-guilty verdict was its own reward. That’s your literal job.”

“Additional motivation never hurts. We have a good chance, Clarke. I think we can win.”

“And then we’re making out, right?”

“We can make out either way,” he teases. “Conjugal visits, that’s a thing. I’d write to you. Always wanted a prison girlfriend.”

It’s actually weirdly reassuring, the surest sign she’s had that he really  _does_  believe her. Like he thinks a guilty verdict really would be  _wrong_ , and that he’d want her regardless.

“I feel like if you wanted a prison girlfriend, you’d be in a good position to find one.” She lets out a breath. “Sorry, I really was going to wait until everything was over before I–”

“It’s cool,” he says, brushing his mouth against hers, just once, soft. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one.”

“Definitely not the only one.”

He smiles a little. “Cool. So, let’s go win this case.”

*

She doesn’t kiss him right away, after the not-guilty verdict comes in. There are reporters around, her mother there to make statements and take pictures, and it’s kind of a crush of  _stuff_.

But Bellamy’s by her side for all of it, and they have an excuse to leave together, her and her legal counsel.

He’s the one to push her up against the door of the car as soon as they’re inside it, mouth hot against hers, hands trailing up her sides as he kisses her like a dam breaking, like he’s been desperate for it.

“Congratulations on the verdict,” he murmurs, and she laughs and tangles her hand in his hair.

“Thanks, you too. We should celebrate somehow.”

His smile is wicked. “I’ve got some ideas.”

“Yeah?” She nips his bottom lip. “I’m all ears.”


	8. What Ails You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [mysidekickisaukulele](https://mysidekickisaukulele.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellarke fic based on Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries

In the grand scheme of things, Clarke knows there are much more important things to worry about than why Inspector Blake isn’t in the office one day. He’s allowed, after all, to take a day off, and his schedule doesn’t follow hers. But there is something arresting about coming in and finding his door closed and locked, no sign of him anywhere. Especially after the night they had; she’d been looking forward to checking in on him, to debriefing.

She always looks forward to seeing him, honestly.

“Where’s the inspector?” she asks one of the officers passing by. “Inspector Blake,” she clarifies, in case he’s somehow not familiar with her or her partnership with Blake.

“Inspector Blake is unwell,” says the officer. “He won’t be in today.”

Clarke frowns. “Unwell?”

The man shrugs. “I only know what I’m told. He isn’t coming in. Is there anything else I can assist you with, Miss Griffin?”

Even if he had Blake’s home address, he probably wouldn’t be able to give it to her. Clarke’s sure she has it  _somewhere_ , or she’ll be able to find it. Not that he should need her coming to play nursemaid, but she does know him fairly well by now. If he and Gina were still seeing each other, she wouldn’t worry, but left to his own devices, she’s just not convinced he’ll remember that he needs to eat even if he’s not hungry and drink more than he usually would.

If she was ill, he’d probably worry about her. It’s not unusual, for friends.

“No, thank you,” she says. “I think I have everything I need.”

*

Clarke would consider Inspector Blake to be something akin to a friend, although it might be too strong a word. They’re associates, undoubtedly, but they don’t spend time together outside of work events.

But she has his address, and it isn’t even that far to travel. She gets some soup and her favorite blend of tea and doesn’t feel nervous until she’s almost there. If he did this for her, she’d understand, but she would think it was–profound. It would be a sign of something.

If he thinks the same thing, he’ll be right, of course. But she does try to be a little less blatant. Ambiguity is the name of her game.

Still, she’s already most of the way to him. And she’d like to make sure he’s well.

She rings the doorbell and waits, shifting a little. Maybe the officer was wrong. Maybe he’s playing hooky. It doesn’t seem like Inspector Blake, but–

The door flies open and there he is, frowning in a hastily tied dressing gown. She’s never seen him looking so ragged, hair in disarray, cheeks rough with stubble, eyeglasses askew.

“Miss Griffin,” he says, straightening the glasses. “What are you–”

She holds up her packages. “I heard you were ill.”

“And you decided the correct response was to come calling, obviously.” He rubs his face. “What did you bring?”

“Soup and tea. I’m not confident in your ability to take care of yourself.”

“ _You’re_  not confident in  _me_?” he asks. “You’ve dragged yourself to investigate cases when I would have known well enough to–” The sentence is lost in a fit of coughs, and Clarke pushes him inside with a frown.

“That was because we  _had a case_. You can’t have gotten this bad in a day, so you must have been working yesterday despite feeling poorly.”

“Not this poorly.” His eyes dart over her, and she refuses to let herself flush. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

“It’s not that far from me.”

“No?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know where I live, Inspector.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I assume you went to the station looking for me and had to come all the way back, or you wouldn’t have known to come out here. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“You don’t have to entertain me, you’re sick. Tell me where your kettle is and I’ll make you some of the tea I brought. My mother swears by it to cure all ills.”

“You brought me tea?” he asks, sounding suspicious, as if this is some clear sign of danger.

“Is that a problem?”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. I was worried,” she admits. “We had a rough night last night, I wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”

“I’m sure it didn’t help with the bug, but it is just a bug.”

“A bad enough bug you took the day off.”

“I didn’t want it to get worse.”

“Then you should sit down and let me make you some of this tea. Have you eaten? Do you want soup?”

“This is a new side of you, Miss Griffin. I think I liked the old one better.”

But he lets her take over his kitchen, and she makes him some tea and starts the soup warming on the stove, and then it becomes uncomfortable, because she doesn’t have anything to say to him, not really. She’s never called on him at home before.

He’s the one to finally ask, “Was there another murder already?”

“What?”

“Is that why you’re so determined to see me?”

“No. It’s not possible I was just worried over your health?”

“It’s possible,” he grants, with an odd tone to his voice. “You don’t have to be. I can take care of myself.”

“I didn’t have any evidence of that, so I thought I should investigate for myself before making any assumptions.”

He snorts, but it turns into coughing again, and Clarke actually gets up to rub his back before she’s quite thought the decision through. It brings her entirely too close to him, warmth radiating off his side, and if there wasn’t entirely too much of it, she might be distracted.

“Are you running a fever?” she demands, putting her hand on his forehead.

“I am sick,” he points out. “You were warned.”

“You shouldn’t have come out yesterday.”

“I was concerned you’d die unsupervised.”

“And now I’m concerned about the same thing. You should be in bed. You know you don’t have to stand on ceremony with me. Do you need anything? Can I run any errands for you?”

“I think I can survive a day.”

“I think it’s going to be more than a day. Don’t argue,” she adds, when he starts to. “My mother  _and_  my best friend are both doctors, you’ll recall. I’m the expert here, Bellamy.”

The use of his Christian name is deliberate, a tactic she’s never tried before, and he startles at it as if he’s been shocked.

“Take the day,“ she goes on, before he can respond. “They’ll survive without you. And if you go in, you’ll just get everyone sick. I’ll come by in the morning to check on you.”

“Will you?” he asks, very nearly a challenge.

“Do you have anyone else doing it?”

“I’m sure my sister would if I asked her.”

“But you aren’t going to ask her.”

He sighs, all the fight going out of him at once. “She’d be awful at it anyway.”

“So I’ll come. If you give me a key, you don’t even have to drag yourself out of bed to let me in.”

“I think being forced to move once or twice a day is good for me.” He wets his lips, his eyes intense on her. “Thank you, Clarke.”

It shouldn’t make her breath stop, it shouldn’t make her heart pound faster. She started it, after all. But all she wants is to stay, to fret over him until he’s feeling better, and once he is—

Well, she’s always known what she wants to do with him. But it’s getting harder and harder to pretend it’s simply lust. She’ll never have enough of him, she’s quite sure of that. She wants to be with him every morning and every night, to not have to come over to check in on him because she’ll already be here, their lives all wrapped up together.

It’s something to think about later, when he’s well and she isn’t so discombobulated from being in his home. When her mind is clear.

"You’re welcome,” she says, with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

*

It takes a few days for him to recover, although Clarke’s sure that if she wasn’t checking in on him, he’d try to drag himself back to work much sooner. But Bellamy works too hard and always has, and Clarke can’t help thinking a long break is good for him. Especially when it doesn’t seem to be anything life-threatening. She thinks about making him go out to see Lexa, just for a checkup, but she knows exactly what her friend would say:  _he needs rest and fluids and doesn’t need all the hassle of leaving his house to come here so I can tell him to stay in bed_.

On the fourth day of his illness, Bellamy opens the door for her fully dressed and shaved, and says, “I made lunch.”

Clarke blinks. “You did?”

“It’s the first part of my plan to convince you I’m well again.”

“How many parts does this plan have?”

“As many as it needs to work.” He holds the door open for her. “I’m not fully recovered, but I’m recovered enough. I think I can go in for the second half of the day and get caught up on all the work I’ve missed.”

“Bellamy–”

“I’ll take it easy,” he says, before she can argue. “Half a day won’t kill me. And I’m feeling well enough to be bored.”

“Of course you are. What did you make for lunch?”

It’s a very dangerous thing, being at Bellamy’s when he’s feeling well. He always felt like himself, but he really is much better now, and he’s made a delicious meal, and he wants to hear about what’s going on with the precinct, since she’s been visiting, but once that’s done, they just chat. It’s their first time being so easy together, shed of professional responsibilities, and it’s tantalizing, a glimpse of what she might have, if he wants it too.

If they can ever talk about it.

“So, do I pass inspection?” he asks, once they’re done.

“The fact that you can cook doesn’t prove you’re well.”

“I assume that means you can’t think of a counterargument,” he teases, and she scowls at him.

“I’m so sorry for being worried about your health.”

His eyes go soft. “I do appreciate it. But I’m fine, Clarke. And it’s not as if you won’t see me again to make sure I’m not overexerting myself. I’m sure you’ll trip over another dead body sooner or later.”

It’s true, but not exactly comforting. After four days of seeing him every day, of relaxed, non-professional interaction, it’s going to be hard to go back to seeing him only when she has official business.

“Sooner or later,” she agrees. “If you want to go back, I won’t stop you. You’re the best judge of your own health. Thank you for lunch.”

“Thank you for looking after me. I might not always show it, but I did appreciate it.”

“You’re a terrible patient,” she says, with a smile, and forces herself to add, “Inspector.” It’s going to raise eyebrows, if she’s too familiar with him back at work.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his eyes search hers for a second. “Are we going back to that?”

“Are we not?”

He takes a step in, still not  _close_ , but closer, close enough to mean something. “I don’t want to. Clarke, you have to know I–”

She pulls him down roughly, and he catches her face right before impact, smiling as their lips meet, tempering the kiss from hard desperation into something lighter and sweeter. His mouth is warm, flavored faintly with lunch and coffee, and his fingers are callused but gentle on her jaw.

She manages to restrain herself for all of ten seconds before she slides her tongue against his, and he groans and pulls her closer, and she manages to navigate them back to his sofa without breaking the contact.

“You’re still recovering, we should sit,” she murmurs, breathless, between kisses, and he laughs, sliding his hands up her sides.

“Your concern for my health is commendable, Miss Griffin.”

“You’re right, we shouldn’t do that too often,” she says. His mouth finds her neck, and she gasps. “Bellamy–”

“Clarke.”

“I really think you shouldn’t go back to work this afternoon,” she says, pulling his mouth back to hers. “Just to be safe.”

He grins at her, glasses askew, hair a mess, but eyes clear and smile bright, everything she hoped for. “Maybe you’re right. But I’m going to need something to keep me busy.”

“I’m sure we can come up with something.”

His fingers slide between the layers of her clothing, finding bare skin, and she shivers closer. “I have a few ideas.”

*

It’s another week before she has reason to go into the precinct, although she’s seen him almost every day and spent more nights in his bed than in her own. This early period of relationships is always a little warm and giddy, but Clarke can’t help thinking this really is  _different_ , too. That it really will last.

“Inspector Blake,” she says, perching herself on his desk, as always.

“Miss Griffin.”

“Welcome back, you were very much missed here. I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Much,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s safe to say I haven’t felt this good in years.”


	9. Behead This Woman, She's a Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [la-la-lara](http://la-la-lara.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: 'All the stories you read as kids are true' Bellarke once upon a time.

The problem is this: Bellamy Blake does not belong in this story.

Of course, he must belong in  _some_  story. There is no being which does not have a story. But he does not belong in Alie’s story, and he’s going to make everything  _complicated_. She had such a neat narrative, every story ending in a tidy bow, every major character accounted for. It was perfect.

And now, it’s going to be  _difficult_.

*

She started as so many storytellers do, the first time she tried it:  _once upon a time, there was a peaceful kingdom, ruled by a just king and a beautiful queen_.

These days, of course, the narratives are more complicated. The simple stories aren’t as popular anymore. The queen can’t be notable primarily for her beauty, and the king needs ambiguity, moral complexity. Diversity is important. The story can start off slow, but there must be twists and turns. There must be  _suffering_. Happy endings are to be earned, not given by virtue of birth and status.

Good writers evolve.

So the queen dies, and the king is plunged into grief, and when his son dies, the line of succession is broken, and one of his advisers steps up to take his place. She spars with another adviser until the arguments become too heated and disagreement turns to passion, as sometimes happens. Love blooms where things were once barren, happiness grows out of sadness.

This is not, of course, exactly how it goes every time. But the broad strokes remain the same, no matter where the characters are, whether the princess is locked in a tower of stone or grief. The story should still work.

The story is going to work.

*

Bellamy Blake is an unfortunate side effect of an impulsive experiment.

The experiment was with the woodcutter, whose narrative value has decreased as technology progresses. It’s not a career anymore, woodcutting, and Alie has had to struggle to make him fit in. He works as an artisan now, a craftsman, and selling his creations online, he met Aurora Blake, a woman named after one of Alie’s first stories. That had pleased her, which was why she allowed it to happen at all. The woodcutter had no romantic entanglements, a quiet man who kept to himself, and a dalliance with the outside world seemed safe, for him. A good way to find out how expanding the parameters of the story might affect it.

She didn’t know about Aurora Blake’s son, and she didn’t know that the single night would result in a second child, a daughter. When the woodcutter found out, he did all the proper things, offering to marry Aurora and paying child support when she declined his suit. Alie was aware of Octavia Blake as someone of the story and not, a strange, dangling thread.

If all Bellamy Blake did was bring his sister back to her, Alie wouldn’t mind him. That’s a public service. But he stays, and  _that’s_  a problem. He’s not supposed to live here.

He’s not supposed to get involved.

*

She’s there, the first time Bellamy Blake meets Clarke Griffin. She doesn’t always witness things; sometimes, she has to read them in the book later, but it’s the weekly farmer’s market, and everyone in town comes to those. She wouldn’t miss it for the world.

In her previous stories, she’d put the princess with the prince, the natural pairing, and it had been fine, but lacked some punch, so she’s trying something new. Next time, she thinks she’d like to not kill the prince–it was a little too much death, this time around–but she doesn’t think they’ll be together again. The prince and the princess is just  _such_  a cliche.

So is killing off a character of color, come to that. She’ll do better by Wells next time.

But Clarke’s storyline has been going well. She’s been exploring her sexuality, finding her preference is for women and not men, and it’s progressing exactly as planned. She’s completed her relationship with Niylah and is well on her way to updating her label to lesbian. This market is supposed to be the next step, the beginning of her happily ever after. She and Lexa will meet and commence a long, complicated flirtation,ending with love. It’s going to be good.

Instead, Clarke bumps into Bellamy Blake.

Alie saw Bellamy come in with his sister and didn’t think anything of it. But Octavia went off with some of the other teenagers, and Bellamy was left to his own devices, wandering without much focus,

Until he bumps into Clarke.

It shouldn’t be anything. It should be a minor hiccup, but Bellamy catches her arm and Clarke looks up to see him, and Alie feels the shudder as the story begins to rewrite itself.

“Sorry,” says Bellamy. “I’m kind of lost.”

Clarke’s mouth twitches. “Lost?”

“Maybe not lost, just overwhelmed. The town’s so small, I thought the farmer’s market was going to be a block or two at most, probably just a parking lot. But this is–wow.”

“Good wow?”

“I’m impressed, yeah. You’ve got some amazing stuff here. I knew O’s dad was a craftsman, but I didn’t know he came from a whole town of artists.”

“I guess it’s one of those things, yeah,” says Clarke. “We’ve always been a kind of traditional place.”

“I noticed. It was like walking back in time. I wasn’t even sure you guys would have wifi.”

“We’re old-fashioned, not stupid.” She offers her hand. “I’m Clarke Griffin.”

He shakes. “Bellamy Blake.”

“Trust me, I know. We don’t get a lot of new blood around here.”

“Wow, that was a creepy way to say that. Definitely not worrying you guys are a weird cult who want my organs now.”

“Like you weren’t already worried about that.”

“Not that specifically. I was still coming up with possibilities. You have to admit the place is creepy,” he says, giving her a look. “Just a little.”

“Creepy? Seriously?”

“Nowhere is this nice and friendly. I walked into the diner and had a job by the end of my first day, and it’s actually enough to pay for me and O’s place.”

“O is your sister? Mr. Harris’s daughter? She’s staying with you.”

“Yeah. Our mom died a few months ago and she’s not eighteen yet, so–” He shrugs one shoulder. “I couldn’t get custody without her dad’s approval and I couldn’t afford our place in the city, so I figured–fresh start, right?”

“And now it’s going too well and you’re suspicious.”

“Trust no one.”

They’ve walked past Lexa’s booth by now, and she’s engrossed in a conversation with Gaia. She and Clarke didn’t even look at each other, which is not how the story is supposed to go.

Clarke laughs, and Bellamy smiles at her, and Alie narrows her eyes, jaw tightening.

She hasn’t had a challenge in a while. Maybe it will be novel.

*

The best stories tell themselves. The author creates situations, but she allows her characters to react on their own as much as they can. Alie has her setting, Lucis, and her cast of archetypal characters, and her magic, but every story she tells is different. Every story is shaped by the individual characters, by their choices and interests, and every author, Alie is sure, has experienced the frustration of a character not reacting how they were supposed to, how they were expected to.

This is on a level she’s never experienced, though.

She knows things about Bellamy. He’s twenty-five, eight years older than his sister, and he’s felt as if it was his responsibility to care for her almost since she was born. There’s nothing  _wrong_  with him, exactly, but he is not hers, she does not control him, he does not belong in her story. He’s not the one the princess is supposed to want to be with.

But she does. Every time Alie turns her attention away from Clarke’s story, checking on the romance between Nathan, the miller-turned-programmer, and Monty, one of the farmers, or the progression of the political and personal conflicts between Clarke’s mother and her new husband, Clarke will have gone into the diner to flirt with Bellamy.

And Bellamy, outside of her control, keeps barging in on scenes that Alie never even thought he’d be in, and as soon as he’s there, he takes all of Clarke’s attention.

And despite her best efforts, she can’t get rid of him. Charles Pike won’t fire him, because he’s a good worker. Indra Birch won’t evict him, because he’s a good tenant. Calvin Harris likes having him and his sister around. Everyone seems to think he’s a good addition to the community, to the  _story_ , and that means Alie’s hands are tied.

She does what she can, of course. Gina Martin is a nice girl, unattached, slated for a tragic premature death. Alie gives her reasons to cross Bellamy’s path, trying to distract him. After all, just because Clarke is interested in him doesn’t mean he’s interested in Clarke, and Alie isn’t privy to his thoughts.

In the end, all she accomplishes is getting Gina and Raven Reyes in the same place, and instead of Raven falling for Kyle Wick, as she was meant to, she and Gina begin a courtship.

Things are unraveling at a truly unprecedented rate. One foreign element and suddenly nothing is going according to plan.

“I didn’t think Raven and Gina liked women,” Clarke tells Bellamy, after the two of them discover Raven and Gina on a date. “I thought I  _did_ ,” she adds, under her breath.

“Who says you don’t?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke bites her lip. Alie’s been watching her more and more, being where she’ll be more than usual, and it’s been odd, witnessing her changing. None of her creations have ever evolved so independently of her. Not really.

“I thought I did, but–I like men too.”

“Me too,” says Bellamy, with a shrug. “I like men and women. Plenty of people do.”

“They do?” Clarke asks, and Alie mouths the words along with her. That’s something to think about; it hadn’t occurred to her. She’d thought everyone was just one way or the other. Binaries tend to appeal to her.

But the narrative would be better served by more choices.

“Jesus, I know bi-erasure is bad, but I can’t believe you guys didn’t even know it was a  _thing_.” He nudges his shoulder against hers, doesn’t move away after. “Get your phone out, google  _bisexuality_.”

They lean over Clarke’s phone together, heads bent close, and Alie finishes her drink.

At least she learned something.

*

She thinks about killing him, of course. It would be easiest. Another tragedy for Clarke to face and overcome, and it would sever Octavia’s ties to the outside world, letting her integrate fully into the narrative. It would be so much easier, and it would get the story back on track. An elegant solution.

Her mind is most of the way made up when she’s reading the book one night and finds that Clarke confessed to Raven– _I think I’m in love with him_ –and the words are there, in black and white, somehow unexpected, in spite of everything.

_Love_. Clarke thinks she loves him.

It is possible to recover from a lost love. Alie has seen it; second chances can be a beautiful thing. But Clarke’s already lost plenty of people in her life, her father and her closest friend, and she’s overcome it. She’s bright and thriving and happy, and she’s in love with a boy who–

Well, that’s the other thing. Alie doesn’t know. For the first time, she can’t be sure how this story will go. She thinks Bellamy loves Clarke too, that they’ll be together, but she doesn’t  _know_.

How wonderful, to not know what’s going to happen.

She can’t wait to find out.


	10. So Glad We Made It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [whyaremyfandomssocruel](https://whyaremyfandomssocruel.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: Bellamy is there for Clarke through the loss of her dad, Wells, Finn, Lexa & pretty much everyone else in her life ever.

Bellamy is eleven when Octavia comes home and says, “Clarke’s dad  _died_.”

His reaction is kneejerk, automatic. “No he didn’t, O. That’s not not what  _die_  means.”

“He did so! Mrs. Park told us. They were in a car crash and her dad died and Clarke got hurt so she isn’t going to be in school for a while. We made a card for her and everything.”

He swallows hard. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that,” she says, and he knows that’s true. He thought she might not know what she was saying, but that’s different from lying. If she’s sure, and she seems to be, then it must be true.

“I know, I’m sorry. That’s awful. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Nothing happened to  _me_. But I was thinking we could go visit, maybe?”

O and Clarke aren’t exactly best friends, but Clarke’s been over a few times, and Bellamy likes her well enough, for an eight-year-old. She’s no more annoying than any of his sister’s other friends. Even a little less annoying, sometimes.

“Do you know what hospital?” She shakes her head, and he nods. “Okay. I’ll come pick you up from school tomorrow and ask Mrs. Park if she knows about visiting and stuff. They might not want anyone to come by yet, it’s probably really tough.”

“Okay. Thanks, Bell.”

“Sure.” He gives her a smile. “What do you want for dinner?”

Mrs. Park appreciates his concern, but as she expected, he says it’s probably not a good idea to go visit yet. Maybe in a week.

So Bellamy comes back, obedient, a week later, to ask if she thinks Clarke might be ready for visitors.

“We just want to make sure she’s not alone.”

Mrs. Park smiles. “I believe her mother said she was home. Let me just give her a call for you.”

He feels a little guilty, going to Clarke’s actual  _house_ ; he doesn’t know her mother, and even though he’s escorting his sister, he can’t help thinking he’s a little out of place.

The woman who opens the door looks a little young to be her mother, and her smile is weary. “May I help you?”

“I’m Bellamy Blake,” he says, “and this is my sister, Octavia. She’s in Clarke’s class at school. We just wanted to check in, if she’s ready for visitors.”

“Let me go ask Abby,” says the woman, with a smile. “I’m sure Clarke will be happy to see you.”

It feels like a lot of checking in, but he guesses he can’t really blame anyone. It must be pretty tough.

Clarke’s mother smiles, shakes both their hands and thanks them for coming by, says Clarke hasn’t had many visitors yet. Her arm is broken and she’s shaken, but she’ll be happy to see some friends.

Bellamy lingers outside the door at first, awkward, but Octavia tugs. “Come  _on_ , Bell. Don’t be weird. Hey, Clarke,” she says, soft.

Clarke looks up from her book, eyes a little red, but smile steady. “Hi, Octavia. Bellamy. Thanks for coming.”

O nods. “Mrs. Park told us what happened. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” she says, looking down at her hands. “How’s school?”

She and Octavia talk about friends and school for a while, and Bellamy lets his eye wander, checking out the room, as large as his and his sister’s put together, full of books and toys and love.

Pictures of her dad, too; they look like they’re close.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Octavia asks, and when Clarke gives her directions, Bellamy finds himself suddenly alone with Clarke.

She looks about as uncomfortable with the whole thing as he is, so he shifts closer. “What were you reading?”

“ _Frog and Toad Are Friends_ ,” she says, holding it up. “My dad used to read it to me.”

“Yeah, I used to read that to O when she was a kid.”

“You’ve been taking care of her for a while, right?”

“Forever, yeah. She’s my sister.”

“And you guys don’t have a dad.”

“No.”

Clarke nods. “But you’re okay.”

It feels like it might be too strong a word, but–they are, right? Most of the time. “You will be too,” he says, because that feels like what she’s asking. “I’m lucky, I don’t remember when my dad died, but–you’ll be fine. Eventually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, smiles a little. “If you ever need–someone else to talk to. I’m around. I know you’ve got plenty of people, but–”

“Thanks. That’s nice of you.”

“I mean it,” he says. “If you ever want an older-brother type, I’m around.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling a little. “I’ll let you know.”

He doesn’t really believe it, and he doesn’t hear from her for years, honestly forgets about her, for the most part. She and Octavia drift apart as they get older, moving to different friend groups, still in classes together sometimes, but not friends, not really.

It’s five years later, at the end of his sophomore year, when he leaves work at the deli on main street to find Clarke waiting for him, this small, scowling form leaning on his car, arms crossed over her chest as she pretends not to be watching the door.

“Clarke, right?” he asks, once he’s remembered her all the way.

“Hi.”

“Either you’re waiting for me or you didn’t know whose car this was,” he remarks, and her mouth tugs up at one side.

“I was waiting for you.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember when my dad died?”

“Yeah.”

“You said I could come to you if I needed someone to talk to, and I do.”

His first reaction is that she must be incredibly hard up, but that’s not really a constructive thing to say. And it’s not like he’s unwilling to help some poor kid who needs some company. If she  _is_  hard up, that just means she really needs it.

“Okay. Driving, walking, sitting?” At her frown, he clarifies, “Where do you want to talk?”

“Oh, um–driving is fine. If it’s–if that’s okay. Sorry, I know this is–really weird.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” He unlocks it. “You can even have shotgun.”

She snorts, soft. “Wow. Generous.”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you. Anywhere in particular you want to go?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

It should probably be weirder, but Arcadia isn’t that big a town, and he does know Clarke. And she’s probably going to do all the work here.

“I’m just going to drive around, then.”

“Thanks.” She waits until they’re in motion before she says, “I had a fight with my best friend. Which I obviously couldn’t talk to him about, because the fight’s with him, and if I tell my other friends, they’ll get involved.”

“So you want an impartial third party?”

“Pretty much. And I saw your sister and that reminded me—you offered. Sorry it took me so long to take you up on it.”

“I’m amazed you remembered.”

“It was a shitty time,” she says, sounding like she’s forty, not thirteen. “You were nice to me.”

“And now it’s another shitty time.”

“Not nearly that bad. Thank god,” she adds.

“So what happened?”

“He told me he liked me. Like, you know. As more than a friend. And I told him I didn’t like him back. And I guess he was pretty sure about it?” She sighs. “I don’t know. I wasn’t even—I don’t want to date  _anyone_  yet.”

“No?”

“How old are you again?”

“Legal to drive you. Sixteen.”

“I assume you remember how stupid dating is in middle school. It lasts like a week and all you do is hold hands and maybe get a couple bad kisses in.”

“Wow. You’re jaded for thirteen.”

“I don’t want to screw up my friendship with Wells for that.”

“Maybe it would be better.”

“Maybe. But I don’t like him like that.”

“If he’s your best friend, I doubt you lost him,” he finally says. “Yeah, it’ll be kind of awkward for a while, and getting rejected sucks, but—he’ll probably get over it.”

“I know. I still feel like I did something wrong.”

“You didn’t. It’s not your fault you’re not interested in him.”

“Is this just what you do? Brother for hire?”

“If you were my sister I’d probably be threatening to beat Wells up. Which would suck, I like Wells.”

Clarke snorts. “You know Wells?”

“He’s in the Latin club.”

“Of course he is. I like him too, just not—“

“For dating. I get it.”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Like I said, any time.”

She moves up to high school next year, and they nod when they pass each other in the halls, talk if they happen to be in the same place for long enough.

Her sophomore year, she comes back from the summer with her hair cut short and dyed red in one patch, and she learned to dress to accentuate her body type instead of hiding it, which he feels like an asshole for noticing, but it’s really noticeable.  _Clarke Griffin got hot_  is a popular topic of conversation, even among seniors.

Which is probably why he hears when she starts dating Finn Collins, and why when he hears that Finn died, suddenly, in a car crash, he goes to her immediately. Without even thinking about it.

Her mother opens the door this time, not the family friend from before. “May I help you?”

“I’m a friend of Clarke’s, I wanted to—“

“Oh. Yes, of course. Let me see if she’s up for company.”

“It’s Bellamy,” he tells her. It feels like it might make a difference.

He doubts she remembers him, but she smiles anyway. “I’ll let her know you’re here, Bellamy.”

The way up to Clarke’s room is the same, and he didn’t realize before how stuck the memory was in his brain, how much it stayed with him. It didn’t seem like such a big deal at the time.

The door is ajar, and he knocks softly before pushing it open. Clarke’s eyes are red, but dry, and he offers her a small smile.

“Thought you might need someone to talk to.”

She throws herself at him, shaking with tears like a dam is breaking, and he just holds her, rubbing soothing circles on her back, saying words he doesn’t actually hear himself.

He’s not sure how long it takes for her to cry herself out, but she says in his arms even after, taking the comfort, and it’s not until she pulls back that he lets her go.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, before she can say anything.

Her laugh is still watery. “Can I thank you?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They’re mostly friends after that, albeit in a strange way. He makes sure to check in on her for the first few weeks, and he keeps checking in for a while after that. Some of his friends tease him about it, flirting with the hot sophomore, but it’s not really like that. Maybe if it wasn’t his senior year, if he wasn’t already into college, he might try something, someday. Once the pain had faded.

As it is, she comes to his graduation and kisses him on the cheek and thanks him for everything, and he says, “I’m still available for long-distance conversations, if you need them.”

He means it, like he always means it, but he doesn’t really expect anything. They’ve never been the kind of friends who just chat. But the first week of his freshman year, Clarke Facebook messages him to ask how college is going, and suddenly that’s a part of his routine. She’s a junior this year, starting to get into looking for colleges and full of questions, but that quickly turns into casual conversation.

“When did you and Clarke Griffin get so close?” Octavia asks, when he comes back for spring break and makes plans to hang out with her.

“Just kind of happened,” he says, with a shrug.

They don’t see a lot of each other, even when he’s home, but they still chat almost every day. She talks him through his breakup with Roma sophomore year and brags about finally getting to help  _him_  with a breakup for a change. He helps her work through a bisexuality crisis a few weeks after that, and then he goes through one of his own when he gets a crush on and somehow manages to date a guy the year after that.

Her senior year of college, Lexa happens, and he kind of wonders if that’s it for her. It seems pretty serious.

She calls him when they break up, a first for them, and he’s so shocked he nearly drops the phone. “Hi?”

“Hey. Lexa and I broke up.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“I kind of saw it coming.”

“Yeah.” They’d talked about it, but he’d mostly been rooting for them to make it. Except for the small, mostly ignored part of him that still thinks Clarke is kind of pretty and kind of amazing and kind of one of his favorite people in the world. “Still.”

She sighs. “Yeah. But we were going different places, and that was–it wasn’t negotiable for her. She’s moving to California and she doesn’t want to do long distance. So–we broke up.”

“I’m sorry. Are you still thinking you’re going to come to Boston?”

He thinks his voice comes out even on the question, like he doesn’t think about it all the fucking time and wonder. She certainly doesn’t seem to think it’s weird, just says, “That’s the plan, yeah. I’ve got an interview in a couple weeks, can I crash on your couch?”

“Yeah, always. Any time.”

She comes down a few times, and he never says anything, never makes a move, but he’s so aware that they’re both single now, that she’s moving to his city, to his neighborhood. That she’ll be close he could see her whenever he wanted to.

He helps her move into her new place and she buys him a pizza, and he doesn’t kiss her, spends a week aware, all the time, of how he isn’t kissing her.

Then she shows up at his door.

“Hey,” he says, cautious.

“Hey. I need to talk to you about something?”

“Yeah, of course. Is everything okay? What happened?”

“Miller’s not home, right?”

“On a date.”

“Okay.” She lets out a break. “I think I’m in love with you. And you don’t have to be–I know you probably still think I’m your second screw-up little sister, but I thought I should double check in case–”

“I don’t,” he says, and kisses her.

“You’re not going to have anyone to talk to if we break up,” he tells her, a few hours later, when they’re cuddled together in his bed, warm and sated and close.

She yawns and kisses his shoulder. “I know. I’m not worried.”

“No,” he admits, with a smile. “Me neither.”


	11. And a Bottle of Rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for [assassinregrets](http://assassinregrets.tumblr.com/)! Prompt: the potc au where clarke is elizabeth and bellamy is will and ROAN IS SHIRTLESS JACK SPARROW AND THEY HAVE MANY SWASHBUCKLY ADVENTURES, also one of your cats is a guest star.

Clarke is so fucking sick of pirates.

“Please, can you just put a shirt on?”

“I’m communing with the sea,” says Roan. “You should try it. It would relax you.”

“How are you communing with the sea? You’re thirty feet above the sea. In a boat. I’d understand if you were swimming, but you’re sitting on the deck.”

“That’s why I need to be shirtless. Farther from the sea, you need to work harder to absorb its essence. It’s why I try to be naked as much as possible when I’m on land. So the sea can still get to me.”

“Obviously,” she mutters.

“You’re too tense.”

“I wonder why.”

“You know there are plenty of fish in the sea. I’m sure you’re fond of your–what was he? A blacksmith?”

“Yes,” she says, through gritted teeth.

“I see the appeal, obviously. Nice hair, big hands, excellent bone structure. But those aren’t qualities unique to him.”

“It’s almost like I like him as a person,” she grumbles. “And you said you’d help, so I don’t know why you’re trying to talk me out of it.”

“I’m not trying to talk you out of the whole plan,” he says. “Just the part where we actually save the blacksmith.”

“That’s the whole plan! That’s what we’re doing. We’re going to save Bellamy.”

“We’re going to defeat the evil pirates. Strike a blow for justice and goodness in the world,” he adds, with a vague wave of his hand. “Rid the world of thieving, lying scum.”

“Like you? You’re a pirate from a long line of pirates. Your mother is even more notorious than you are.”

“Which makes me the expert on how much of a lying thief we are, as a group. For all we know, the blacksmith is already dead,” he adds, and Clarke feels a chill run through her whole body.

“He’s alive and we’re going to save him,” she says, firm. It might not be true, but she has to think it. “That’s all there is.”

“Suit yourself,” says Roan, after an uncomfortably long pause. “I still think you’d feel better if you took your shirt off.”

“Yeah,” says Clarke. “I got that.”

*

It’s not like Clarke’s life was great  _before_  the pirates showed up, but it wasn’t terrible, and her problems were still fairly manageable. Her parents wanted her to marry, but the governor’s daughter certainly wasn’t  _meant_  to marry an orphaned blacksmith, so they were looking for other options, and she was still trying to convince Bellamy to call her by her first name, which seemed like a necessary prerequisite to matrimony.

Then she was kidnapped by pirates, drained for blood that wasn’t hers, rescued by Bellamy and Captain Roan Puffin, legendary pirate whose reputation  _massively_  exaggerates the reality, and then captured again, stranded, and left for dead while Bellamy was taken.

That’s not how this story ends. It’s not allowed to. She doesn’t care what Roan says.

But she’ll admit, she’s never done a rescue before.

“I don’t see why you’d hide your treasure in a cave.”

“No? What would you do with it?”

It’s less that the question is great and more that it’s distracting, and she needs something to focus on. “I’d want to spend it.”

“Oh, they spent it. That’s why it took so long to get it all back together, and they were still searching for that last missing piece.” He smirks over his shoulder. “At least, until you provided it.”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she snaps. “How was I supposed to know?”

“That a coin you took off a boy you found in the wreck of a pirate ship might be somehow cursed? Yes, who could have seen that coming?”

“I didn’t think curses were real! I was just trying to save him.” She never thought twice about taking the coin to keep Bellamy from being thought a pirate, all those years ago. She’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“That seems to be your primary goal in life. Sometime, you won’t be able to.”

“I appreciate your dedication to reminding me that Bellamy might be dead, but it’s not necessary. I’m aware.”

“Good. Now, what would  _you_  do with pirate treasure? If you have a better place to store it than a remote island, I’d love to hear it.”

“My family’s coffers.”

He snorts. “Yes, that sounds much safer. Although that’s the first place any pirate worth their salt would look, you know. We spend much of our time stealing from the rich.”

“I thought you stole from boats.”

“Those too.” He holds up his hand, and Clarke goes quiet. Annoyingly enough, she and Roan actually make a good team, and it’s easy for her to understand what he wants. She creeps forward, looking around the corner past Roan into a large, open cavern. Bellamy is in the middle, jaw squared, hands bound, and her heart soars.

He’s still alive. Now all they have to do is  _keep him_  alive.

“You’re lucky he’s as dramatic as I am,” Roan murmurs, watching Captain Wallace as he struts back and forth in front of the crowd. He’s giving what Clarke is sure is supposed to be a rousing speech, but it seems unnecessary. He already gave one when he tried to do this same ritual with Clarke; surely everyone already remembers how this went down.

But maybe he updated it; she wouldn’t know. All she can focus on is the dagger in Wallace’s hand, slicing through the air for emphasis as he talks. The dagger he’s planning to use to drain Bellamy.

They probably won’t kill him right away; they didn’t kill Clarke. But they need his blood, and once they have it, they won’t have much reason to keep him alive. And as far as he knows, he doesn’t have another way out of here. Bellamy’s the type to go down fighting.

In unison, she and Roan look behind them, at the rest of their ragtag crew. Clarke hasn’t gotten to know any of Roan’s pirate buddies very well, she’s been too distracted, but they seem remarkably focused, suddenly.

When push comes to shove, they apparently have a pretty decent team.

“We have to let them finish the ritual,” she murmurs, soft.

“Do we?”

“We can’t kill them until the curse is broken. So–they have to break the curse, and then we can deal with them.”

“How ruthless of you.”

“They haven’t given me any reason to be kind. They tried to kill me, and I don’t think they’re going to be inclined to keep my best friend alive.”

“What an exciting euphemism.  _Best friend_.”

“Shut up. We need to be ready to move as soon as they’re done, and I don’t know how long Wallace is going to keep talking. They’re your people, you need to tell them what to do.”

“I’m the captain, you don’t have to tell  _me_  what to do,” he says, mild but admittedly fairly valid. “I have a plan. You just take your blacksmith and get him to the ship as soon as you can.”

“That’s it?” she asks, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t think you’d be much use in a fight. Although maybe you’d surprise me. Perhaps you have some martial innate talent. Stranger things have happened. Now,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it aside. “Follow my lead.”

“I’m not taking off my shirt,” she hisses, and tries to catch him. “I thought we were–”

“Gentlemen!” he bellows, hurling himself, shirtless with arms wide, into the mouth of the cavern. “Allow me to interrupt.”

“–waiting,” Clarke finishes, as the rest of the pirate stream past her. “Pirates. So fucking dramatic,” she mutters, with a sigh, and takes a side-tunnel in hopes of making it to Bellamy without getting herself killed.

*

As fights go, it’s–ridiculous, honestly. Not that Clarke’s an expert, but it looks more like some of the slapstick she’s seen in comic plays than the actual, life-or-death battle that it is. Roan couldn’t afford to properly equip their crew, and they didn’t bring much with them, so they’re fighting with whatever they can find, and when Clarke actually sees someone throw the  _cat_ , well–

Honestly, there’s an argument to be made for her and Bellamy just cutting their losses and running, but the pirates are always going to need his blood, and Clarke doesn’t want the two of them to always be looking over their shoulders, waiting to be caught.

“Did you bring a cat?” Bellamy asks. He’s staying close to her, one arm around her back as they crouch away from the action, ready to defend her if need be.

It’s nice to be back together again, even in these circumstances.

“They couldn’t afford a parrot,” she murmurs. “Murphy said a cat would do.”

“Do cats like boats?”

“No. It’s been pretty bad. Not how I imagined being on Captain Roan Puffin’s dread pirate crew, honestly.”

The cat yowls again, and someone screams. Bellamy winces. “Yeah, that sounds right. Do we have a plan?”

“I think Roan’s going to tell us when we need your blood.” She finds his hand and squeezes it. “I was so fucking worried.”

“Language, you’re a lady.”

“Fuck you,” she says, and he grins. “Really, though. I was so worried you were going to die and I’d never get to see you naked.”

“That would be the primary reason you were upset?”

“One of several.”

He glances away from the fight for a second, offering her a smile. “I did help save you from pirates. That should put me on your parents’ good side, right? Assuming we survive.”

“If it doesn’t, I don’t care. You’re on  _my_  good side, you should know that.”

“I know.” He exhales. “So let’s kill the ghost pirates, get out of here alive, and see what we can do about the nudity and the parents.”

“Hopefully not at the same time. Roan!” she yells, not even sure where he is in the melee.

At least he’s expecting it. “One minute!”

The cat shrieks again, the moonlight shifts, and the pirates finally seem to realize that Bellamy’s missing and turn their attention to finding him.

“Fine, then,” Roan says. “Now!”

Bellamy throws the coin into the pile, there’s a ripple of power, this odd sensation like a strong wind hitting her without any wind, and suddenly, the pirates start to  _bleed_.

It doesn’t take long to round them up after that, mortality a powerful motivating factor, and in no time, it’s over, Roan’s crew seizing the pirates’ superior arms, taking them hostage, and leading them out of the cave.

“Is there any possible reason you had to not be wearing your shirt for this,” Bellamy says, flat, when Roan finds the two of them.

“I needed a full range of motion.”

“Do you need better shirts? Is that it?”

“Have you ever considered I want you to remember there are romantic options aside from the governor’s daughter here?”

Bellamy seems to be thinking it over, so Clarke jumps in, “Then why don’t you wear shirts around me?”

“Same reason. This childhood sweethearts thing is very limiting. The world is full of people.”

“I like this person, though,” she says, giving Bellamy’s hand a squeeze. “Are we done? Can we go?”

“It’s traditional to kiss the girl at the end of the fight, but I leave that decision to you. Either way, we should be getting back to the ship. We’ll bring you to the nearest port, and you can find passage back to Arcadia. I’d rather not try to explain to your parents that I’m the  _good_  pirate. I can’t imagine they’d be receptive.”

It seems like a good enough plan, but it nags at Clarke. She and Bellamy are sharing a bunk on the ship, stealing kisses and privacy when they can, but it still seems possible that she’ll get home and be told she needs to marry someone more appropriate anyway. And even if she is allowed to marry him, what then? She’ll be a governor’s daughter, pretty and bored, and he’ll be a tradesman if he’s lucky. Bellamy wouldn’t do well in the upper echelons of society, less because he’s not suited to it and more because it would enrage him. They can love each other, but that doesn’t mean they have a good life waiting for them.

“What if we didn’t go back to Arcadia?” she asks him, a few hours before they reach port.

“And did what instead?”

“Roan could use more crew.”

He frowns at her. “You want use to be pirates?”

“It beats any of the other things I can think of us doing. I don’t want to go home and be a proper daughter, and I’m not convinced you want to go home and be a blacksmith. But I think we have some potential as pirates.” She pokes his chest. “And you could wear shirts less.”

“I think that’s just Roan.” He glances up at the sky. “A pirate’s life for us, you think?”

“Yo ho,” says Clarke, with a smile, and he shakes his head, leans in for a kiss.

“Yo ho.”


End file.
